Return To Title List
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.