Mother, Great Pine,
Stretching in her years.
Needles springing from craggy trunk
In need of water.
Branches reaching for cloud mist.
Perches for birds with nests
Gathered in crevices hidden by owls.
Her hair of needles
Cracks in Sun’s heat
And breaks in Sun’s breath.
Her roots dig into springs
Dried to stain on parched sand,
Blown to rock in forgotten forests,
Where memories remain.
Mother, Great Pine,
Life marks its initials
On tattered bark
Dressing her soul.
Her shadow marks a path
For Time to travel
Dawn to dusk
Without fail.
Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard
Image: https://www.google.com/search
Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver 