Wind like snow and rain
Descends upon the pines,
Threshing them
Free of sunshine

Or so it seems:

At my feet lay the yellow needles
That mark the end of a season
The end of too much heat
The end of stillness

And there are pine cones
Everywhere to say
Earth and air and light
Will make of their dreams

A tree.

In this strange mating,
In the shape of this tree

That has learned to yield
To every pressure
Yet to grow straight

Death is a fragrant,
Liquid definition

Of forever.