The great pine appears to be unmoving, but it is moving.
It does not count its years of life, it does not consider its time.
The great pine appears to be unmoving, but it is changing.
It is making its steady climb
for the sky.

How long has it sat in just this one place?
The pine’s silent elocution is a manifesto for life:
To do, and be what it can;
it has never troubled over its worth or height.

The pine simply
climbs, ever slowly, ever steadily, towards the stars, and the glint
of divinity, of understanding its place in the world.
To give and drink and grow, to give and drink and grow.

The pine has no wish to know, to comprehend the
birds, grass, the elk’s deep and piercing groan, the pine only
grows, and betters itself; to be and to be and
to be.

How am I to simply stay? How am I to be
without the understanding of what is beneath my feet?
I am not of roots, but roads;
I am not of leaves, but teeth.

The great pine appears to be unmoving but I know it is moving.
I know because I have bore witness to it.
I know because I have read books,
taken measurements, watched and listened to its sway.

I want to stay, but,
I am not the pine. I am not of bark but bone.
I crave, and fear, and writhe.
When braced by wind I do not bend backward, but forward.

I am not the pine. Still I stand beneath its cathedral branches
and take breath, and sigh. Unlike the pine I must confront my time.
I must take hold of life and heat it, shape it, pound it;
I have these hands, I must use them
for all I can, for all I will.