White Pine
White pine
across the street.
Saw it from the sofa.
Forty years
to ignore its presence.
Where did the lowest branches go?
One by one, evaporating,
leaving sappy sockets
dripping,
congealing,
yet I showed no feeling.
Atop are the children,
swaying,
the way Miss Darkis did.
Erasing the chalkboard
when I was a kid.
We start again.