Singing Pines

What food for the imagination those gentle sounds were as breezes crept softly through the trees.

I imagined what it must have been like for the "pioneers" who came struggling through, looking for new lives in this strange land ... what it was like for those who were already here when those settlers came.

I gathered cones, of course, as so many children ... and adults ... had done through the ages.

I imagined that they were treasure ... that I was exploring some distant island ... while my ship sat in a quiet cove nearby, its massive sails catching the sunlight and a gentle tropical breeze.

And more cones.

How strange they were ... how plentiful ... fragrant ... and magical.

Oh, the memories I gathered in those early, carefree days.

And now, the poem:

SINGING PINES

Tall pines comb

the summer wind

for its soft music

while I linger,

savoring memories

of childhood days

rich with the smell

of gathered cones.

© 1995

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: savoring