Monday, March 19, 2007


In youth, the old pine was full of sap
that now runs down like honey, golden
sweet and thick. My thoughts are trapped
like ants in amber, half-unfolding
half-unfinished, frozen forms
encased in amber. I'm slowing down,
my needles frayed by winter storms
burned by summer's heat to brown.
Come under my branches and gather
sweet amber drops, a necklace threaded
around your sweet neck. I'd rather
throw away broken thoughts embedded
in drops of gold than try to keep
unfinished thoughts to mutter in my sleep.

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