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.

Poem and photo copyright by Mar Startari, 2006

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Whailing Tree