White Pine
Oct 1 2026
The massive trunk
of the towering pine
curves gently to the south.
Away
from the prevailing wind
that blows from west of north.
I imagine how the sapling must have bent
but didn’t break.
As if its supple spine
had a memory.
As if its thick cell walls
had grown under stress
and carried a permanent mark
— like an impressionable child
who learns by example
despite what you tell him.
These virgin white pine, strong and straight
were prized as masts
in His Majesty’s Royal Navy.
So this one must have been spared;
a misfit tree
a freak of nature.
Shunned, like circus people.
The way decent folks gawk
at the bearded lady, fire-eater
lithe contortionist,
who are happy to keep to themselves
in their wheeled caravans
of ornately carved wood.
A tree that learned well,
standing
like a column of granite
against the fiercest gale.
A beautiful tree,
looming protectively
and strengthened by adversity.
I wonder how many ships went down
since this one’s been here?
And a tree I can only admire
if not be proud of;
as if it wasn’t presumptuous
that simply owning property
entitled me to pride.
No one gawks
or points in ridicule.
We only look up,
and with a hand shading our eyes
take delight;
a survivor
that, like the best of us
bends but doesn’t break.
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