The season tastes like
Mildewed bark from pine trees
That bend, not break, underneath
Adolescent feet and I remember,
As a child, I felt the needled bristles
Run through my hair
Nesting in my mind to sprout later
When I myself had matured
And learned that despite the opinions
Of self-proclaimed intellectuals,
Roots cannot be replaced
Only broken into pieces or dug up
And left to whither unless replanted
In the places these grand trees
Were born

Inspired by the flower prompt for NaPoWriMo. (I took some liberties!)

Author: Erica V.

Always seriously joking and rambunctiously soft-spoken.

One thought on “Pine”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s