Today,
a discovery:
a twig
of
fallen pine.
I rolled
prickly needles
‘gainst
cold, numb
fingers--
if only to feel
the
bitter
pain
that comes
from being
alive.
It did not hurt
as much
as I thought
it would.
Closely examined:
green needles
delicately
interwoven,
ever-green
laced,
fastened wholly
into bark,
immovable,
fragile,
boasting only
brown tinges
of mortality:
perfect
in
natural
imperfection.
Its beauty spiritual
in that it
encapsulates
a certainty
of being
not present
in my life
at the moment.
Promised depth,
enigmatic secrets--
smells of
green sharpness,
bitter
against the
raw
winter air.
Cuts
tenderly
into my
own.
White
is the color
of my soul
when I
examine it,
twisting it
like pine
beneath my
fingers,
feel
its prick.
Sharp
needles
blur once
tears
come,
shed easy
over
small things
that mean
too
much--
if only
to me.
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