The Blue Pines

Sunlight etched constellations
Of its own on the branches.
“We may believe,” murmured trees,

“Our lives cannot change the light,
But the light’s always changing,
And so are our lives.

Why are we just standing here?
Why are we waiting, rustling,
Never going anywhere?

The fish never leave our pond,
But they leap, at least, they lunge.
We wait in shade for the light.

Evening finds us darkening,
Gilded towers turning blue,
Accepting nature as fate.

We have our virtues.
We are not brittle in storms,
Although the worst ones break us.

We are flexible.
We nod at the sun.
We signal through air.

We interact with the earth
And elaborate the ground.
We make deep woods of ourselves.

We wish we could go somewhere,
But we do not want to go,
So we grow around the door

And brush against the windows
Of the poet’s brown study.
He listens to our noises,

But we only inspire him
To promise a reckless choice,
To boast how he will be gone. . . “

The constellations shifted.
The blue pines paused their rustling.
There never was a poet.