The Man in the Pine

There’s a man In the pine,
I feel he sees through me
He looks older and wise
I ask where he came from,
What forests he had seen.
With those wide round eyes
And their clouded, dull gleam.
there had to be stories,
Within his many weathered rings.
Like mental inventories,
Each one fragile and buried beneath.
like soft women sitting beautifully,
Reading their poetry.
that’s why I’m fairly certain,
His favorite window is me.
The man in the pine,
He’s my security.

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