Pines

The lodgepole pine
nestled in the dark humus
of the fire born earth
grows straight and true.
The goldmine of pioneers
staking out a presence
with fences, and barns
and little houses all snug.

That same seed laid open
on the edge of where
firm shore meets
rolling sea grows too
in wild undulations and
strange discontinuities.
Twisted by salt earth
and long nights of
unending buffeting
by one great tempest
after another.
It cannot deny its destiny
or the Sun, its greatest lover
who blessed it into being.
It's hard, yes, stunted
and sculpted into something
unexpected.  I wonder
when  sap runs under
its hardened skin what
things it remembers and
if it believes it is
any less true.

-- Jessie Bader, 2003