The Tall Pine


The tall parasol pine stands bleeding
In rising morning light.
Only time heals.
Only the sweet gentle dust of time
Soaks up the blood
And closes open wounds.

Dulled memory obscures signs,
Muffles sounds, erases lines
Of painful blows
That leave him still standing
But wondering why.

Until night falls
and the cold glow of moon and stars
starts the game anew.


About emmylgant

Cloud watcher and dreamer sometimes wise, often foolish, but I am what I am.
This entry was posted in Life, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

13 Responses to The Tall Pine

  1. Mélanie says:

    excellent poem… I love parasol pine trees, very present in our region… 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Randstein says:

    This is one of your poems that has so many layers of meaning to me that all that comes out of me when I try to comment is, “Ack! Kack! Phft-Phft!” I’m sure it’s a neurological overload. Size 10 thoughts in my size 5 brain have that effect. I grew up among pine trees. They do bleed when wounded and it does take years to heal. Your poem connected me to those trees in the geography of my childhood and suddenly I understood something about myself.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. PapaBear says:

    Does the game ever stop, Emm? If it does, I want to be long gone, somewhere else, involved in a new game !!! 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Suzanne Richmond says:



  5. Katalina4 says:

    Oh beautiful tree. Thank goodness for the night.


  6. john zande says:

    Beautiful. Standing, but wondering why… Perfect.


  7. Poetry as it should be – magical, mystical, marvellous.
    Tu es une inspiration, toujours.


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