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.
unbuttoned or undone 
Poetry as it should be – magical, mystical, marvellous.
Tu es une inspiration, toujours.
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Love all those Ms! Thank you.
En symbiose comme tu l’as dit.
L’inspiration en deux sens , tu crois pas?
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Beautiful. Standing, but wondering why… Perfect.
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Thank you John. I am constantly amazed at what your eyes see, the stuff you pick up on when I snuck it in there… word sleuth?
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Oh beautiful tree. Thank goodness for the night.
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I have a few of these big beautiful nearly regal trees in my neighborhood and I never tire of observing them. Thank you. I think you would really get a kick out of the light in these parts.
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Beautiful!
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Thank you Suz. Big smiles and hugs.
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Does the game ever stop, Emm? If it does, I want to be long gone, somewhere else, involved in a new game !!! 🙂
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Well said Paul! Thank you.
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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.
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excellent poem… I love parasol pine trees, very present in our region… 🙂
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Thank you Melanie, I am glad you enjoyed it.
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