I’ve been writing poetry for the first time in a long, long while. Here is one of the recent products.
The Pines
Like a valley of pine,
Your skin is an
acidic monoculture.
Nothing will grow there,
but you.
You’re tall and upright,
no undergrowth, just
an uneasy bed of needles.
There is no rest in
your shadow.
When I look up, I
can’t see the sky
for your black branches.
I should feel safe,
but I don’t.
