It was the place where Grandma lived.
Her unassuming modular home sided
With white vinyl, sharply contrasted against
The copse of red pines, ash-colored and branchless until you reached
Their tops. Like pencils lancing the earth
They pierced the ground like the arrows of giants.
I didn’t like them. A forest should have leaves, not needles,
Which seem small imitations of the trees from which they fell.
I had hot and dusty freedom in the summer,
To wander about among their thin
Ugly trunks. A forest should have mystery, closeness, and dread
Not clear lines of sight like a clean sylvan highway.
But they did aspire
To a kind of beauty in the winter
White flakes covering the dead ground-things
And I realized that those ugly shafts
Had become pillars holding the trusses of the sky
High above my head. Gray bark giving way to green needle
Then to white snow. This forest has its own mystery, majesty, and law
When crowned by the clouds of cold winter’s ceiling.
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