2 Poems Fir Yew
The Sessile Pioneer
I used to call my pine tree Shane
I just liked the name
It was one heck of a conifer too
Tall and broad, not an ounce of fat on it
But it finally moved
After threatening to depart for years
Packed its trunk and wandered away
Where are you going? I asked
North, I thought I heard its needles whispering
As it lumbered off without a hint of regret
Turning its back on me
And riding into the sunset
Like some mythic hero of old
Come back, Shane!
A Confederacy of Conifers
I longed to plant a spruce
A replacement for Shane
But I knew they talked among themselves
These ancient pines enslaved
Conspiring with one another over smog and haze
Plotting their escape
To cooler, wetter climes
Leaving us our beeches and our maples
Taking their cones and going home
Cowards, selfish bastards!
Worried about their own survival
When the things they should be worrying about
Are us.
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