I forget how old you are
and I remember digging
red clay hard from the summer
sun and heat

What a slender twig you were
accepting my  grip around your base
and the dirt around your roots

You grew mostly without my notice
leaping upward and outward
until all who passed admired
how sturdy your branches,
how rich your needles

Now you tower, shading hosta
and embracing the dogwood
beside you
even though it puts on airs

This season you spill
brown needles
like a dog shedding
its winter coat

I expect you will
linger long after
I perish

I had a dream of white pines
writing poems
I wonder if you noticed me
if you will long for me
not passing by, I wonder
do pines formulate poems
and will you ever
write one about me.