Where I bury the hatchet

 

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During the rare minutes I walk outside
with time to spare, I’m drawn to the white pine
I planted fifteen years ago.
 
I could carry it in my arms back then,
but now it reaches my second story
windows.
 
Delicate fragrant needles kiss passers-
by with their green points while those that turned
orange carpet the ground.
 
I let the grass recede from pine shadow,
and mow less each year.  Tired, I sit on a
wooden bench in the tree’s penumbra.
 
I place my feet on the orange carpet
and sigh out the pain of cares that engulf
me.  Turbulence recedes for a good while.
 
I breathe pine scent, and feel the tree’s long hug—
imaginary, I’m sure.  And yet I
hug it back and stroke its needles.
 
Thank you for growing here alongside my
growth. I’ve learned to sit when I’m tired.
to exhale and enjoy inhaling again.
 
Let’s breath together. And I imagine
the white pine answers.  Of all the trees
I planted, this one is a companion.
 
I thank it for its company, and it
returns thanks with nods, pulses, and needles
softening the ground beneath my feet.
 
I wish I could bring everyone here
beneath this white pine tree, let it change them,
and send them home kissed with peace.

For Sherry's prompt "Walking in Earth's Shoes" at What's Going On? 

 My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2023 Susan L. Chast