Eulogy, Old Pine

 

Eulogy, Old Pine

This plank in my hand feels warm.
My fingers, cold.
I am alone in my wood shop with pieces
of a working class pine who did his job,
who drank moderately and only of rain,
who had an exterior rough, a personality prickly,
whose blood ran sticky,
who whistled while he worked,
who gifted cones of careful craft,
who dressed fancy in yellow fungus,
    in emerald moss,
who sheltered the nesting tanager,
who stood against bullying storm,
who bent with pain,
who donates his body,
whose spirit lingers
as powder on my fingers
smelling sweet as sugar.

…..

First published in Visitant
engraving by Robert Henry Logan