these pines mean more to me than I ever thought they would,
and I think they know me better
walking through the pines is complete
first, the green,
everywhere,
all the time,
unless you’re counting the larches and that’s only for a few weeks and almost nowhere, anyway
next, the smell
i understand why they try to bottle it up and put it in cologne and air fresheners and candles
but they’re never as good as the real thing
close your eyes for a minute and let it take you over,
surround you,
drown you
stay until a soft wind picks up –
listen to the rustle of the needles
high,
high,
high,
above you
the wind disperses the fragrance until you think you will certainly leave this place evergreen-scented,
and it will be a few days before your hair smells like you again
hemlock and fir and spruce and a hundred others
push deeper in
they are spaced so close to each other
their branches are the last part of them to leave their mark on you
the needles scratch your arms
you’ll take them with you, too,
finding them in your hair and shoes and maybe in your coat pocket in a week from now
when was the last time you were touched this many ways?
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