Pine

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.

1 thought on “Pine”

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