Two pines 

There are two different pine trees out in the front yard. 

The one on the left is planted for keeps in the ground,

the other one is an ex-Christmas tree, last month shining festive

in our house, tall, green, one of the family, went to bed with us. 

That pine says to the planted pine—mysterious, quiet so far—

“I guess I’m about to be thrown away, any minute now 

to turn brown somewhere, forgotten, no longer even festive.”

Now I get involved, get out in the yard, and that pine says to me, 

“And I suppose you’d be the guy 

that’s going to chop me up and throw me away?”  

I grip this pine by the trunk, shake it, look deep into its green eyes, 

take command of it in a strong and loving way it didn’t see coming

couldn’t have seen coming

after a childhood growing up fenced-off on a tree farm

then trashed in maybe a suburban dump way out of sight. 

So, I shake it hard in a green release and relief of free, fragrant 

needles across the yard, also close to the quiet, planted pine.

The trunk reacts, wiping its bough with a branch, seems 

less worried, but says, “Of course, now the rest of me 

goes away for sure, right? Off to the dump. Fine, I get it.” 

It’s my turn. Strongly, I say “No, my friend. My pine pal. 

You and your all branches stay too. All your needles. 

I’ll trim you—I won’t hurt you—and playfully place you 

around the yard, so you’ll be able to see one another from 

where I lay you gently, for keeps. 

Welcome home, you’re not going away. 

You’re about to grow something new, right here.”

Really? say both pines, pining for a happy ending. 

Really, I say, arranging one. 

Shakespeare coulda made a play about today, I say. 

Mulch Ado about Something. 

And as these forever and evergreen pine trees

especially the pine freshly shaken

seem to get greener, and as the big sky goes bluer

I tell these two tentative trees the truth. 

That Shakespeare line was corny, (quiet pine nods yes)

but nothing’s really ended and over. Or alone.

Welcome home.