She opined in a breeze Even for they’d shine green I needed to let my I asked her once She’s not in back pages vines have
on evergreens
ticking off points
saps like me, my
ever-pines would
clock no time like
potted plants do: she promised
forever for me
passing brain storms lie, yet
branching thoughts,
light on trees, dimmed
before tinsel could be laid
to play around
combing cones
smelling needle resin
when I so young didn’t
know a mosaic virus
from a worm term
nor is tree disease, yet
the needling and needles
are gone, fallen down brown
creepy vines up dead trunks
sunken shadow hope, the
new face of bramble dread. Damn
grown over my
pine combed trees
bearing news of
winter death, ungreen sorrow
broken branches,
awaiting sparks, and
brittle burning
—- Douglas Gilbert
