Great White Pine

Trees, gently swaying in the spring breezes bedazzle
Outside my windows
Still buds cascade
Down the ends of branches
Waiting for the right moment to burst forth
Hesitant, unsure
Whether tomorrow will bring greater warmth
Or, a foot of snow,
Like in 1995, on May 7th,
Here in these hills.

A few songbirds fly past the windows at
Dawn, still,
Their songs are rare.

A lovely spring place
On this ridge evokes, whispering to me like a lover,
A soft spongy spot, where there is the most beautiful white pine,
A tree absolutely perfect in form.

All this tells me much about The Great Mystery
Unfurling, unfolding, carefully and delicately,
Each bud, each leaf,
Paying necessary attention to the other
To the self, to
Whither, we all are,

In this place where oxygen is a necessity.

1990/2019