Shrub Pine

Shrub pine, slung close to the ground,
Keep safely behind the bend in the handrail.
You taste stale, almost like deodorant or,
Perhaps bitter dill, not shrill and alive like alcohol.
But you smell as fresh as a witchÂ’s mouth on
The Sabbath. Still holding colonies of
Spider-silk webs, you reach out to spread
Over all the uncovered creatures. Old, yet
Growing, humble in the coarse dirt, will
I ever be able to stoop-over, plain and
Simple, to shake your fern-frond branch?
Becoming, in silent sputters, will I ever
Be able to clench whatever corpuscles of
Time I have, as chorophylly green as you?

Love Library: Featured Articles

Sex Wars: He Said / She Said

Love Experts

Need Advice? Ask Our Experts!