I’ve seen the ninety-ring pine in its age—
What splendor, its breadth, and what rise radiates!
What good is a forest without its display?
Would sapling survive without its fair sage?
Think if the ninety-ring dropped not its cone—
And were pleased to sway for reasons its own.
What if this charisma had altered the whole—
And ninety-rings lived just to darken the knolls?
Such forests would be for all of one’s life—
In canopy’s glory and fragrant entice.
Touring hikers may trail through twice—
But ninety-rings know of the pine beetle’s knife.
The ninety-rings know it is chance to revive.
The ninety-rings know that their age won’t suffice—
Neither might, nor their scars, can reverse the cruel heist.
The true siege is on their hopes to survive.
Those young, that realized, had more to show.
Those promising trees saw fertile below.
In their season each year, they have labored their cones—
And pray with all hope that a two-ring might grow.
For a two-ring, there’s still a grand chance to make sage—
And each ring they add has a bittersweet face.
Applaud, yes, it’s hard, as surrender takes place—
Thus, I look up to ninety-ring pines in their age.
Keep removing your hat,
–JH
Photo also by Samuel Ferrara on Unsplash.com
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