Evergreens How grand they look as the hills they cloak, In a dark, yet lustrous hue-- Some limbs sloped down toward the ground, Their tops erect and “true”. A song they wring from the homeless wind, As it rushes from here to there— Collecting snow from the storm clouds flow, On limbs not ever bare. Symbols, they-- of renewing life, The Yuletide tree their lot— Play the “gilded Lilly” role-- When man-made glory’s sought. Haven for the nesting bird, Whose songs delight the ear-- Backdrop for the ones that perch Their colors glowing clear. Provide the wood for mankind’s good-- The homes that dot the land— Crackling heat as hearth-fires leap-- White smoke that smells so grand. Fodder for the wild-fire’s rage, That scourge the traceless tracts, Targets for the lightning’s bolt-- That summer’s storms exact. All these things and more, they are— But lest I fail to say’ They do drop cones and a brand of ‘straw’, That fails to go away. Their lower limbs resent my parts, (That they contact as I mow), And leave their welts and sap that sticks, On face and arms wreak woe. But all in all I’m glad they’re here The ones that grace my lawn--- Break the wind-swept drifting snows Will be here-- when I’m gone. Bill Woodall