I am Pine.  I have a deep bed of my birthing at my roots, a couching of the fruits of my living,  laid to the Earth one on top of the other, on top of the other giving back to the land.  A loom of feed, a dark mulch to the land that holds the moist to my roots.  My cone of seed to find genesis.

I would be in silence and perfect stillness were it not for the tumble of the wind through my branches and the Sun pulling my green to my surfaces, and rain that shimmies through the bed of my children to my roots.  I grip the land with the gentle weave of my roots ever busy drawing up and in the taste of rock and soil.

My stillness is deceiving to my sensory vitality.  What is seen hides the unseen.  Were not the forest for it’s trees.  Not for the forest family that nibbles at my bark, or builds a fortress among my branches for me to hold the sacred birth of freedoms flight, or the protection from the surface bullies hunt, and hungry needs of what takes to give back to the cycle to life.

I Am.  Rooted here, vulnerable to the seasons in their elemental cacophony of mood swings and tumultuous whims.  The giving and taking of what feeds me lays to my branches and finds my roots for my reaching and pulling in.  Everyday holds a give and take in the mingle of roots to dirt, roots to neighbors in the family of forest keeping.  Roots to the land that is my becoming to this stewardship; busy nurturing from roots to sky.







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