Ode to a Spruce

Not for you the gaudy dance of color,

green to gold to red to dead: autumnal

corpses piled in wheelbarrow tumbrils.

Spring for you is barely marked by pallor,

newer needles lighter than their older

siblings on the same branch. And your oblong

cones persist from year to year, unfallen,

full of life. The year is never over,

 

promises your whispered counsel. I must

surely learn the lesson you’ve assigned me:

growth and change are slow as well as rapid,

haste should not become a ruling habit.

Constant friend, I count on you. Remind me,

God is near, and evergreen means timeless.

 

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