Bluff of the Pines

I like the bits and pieces.

I like the moss crawling on tree roots and the baskets on bikes and the pupils of a person.

That is probably the reason why I like Pinebluff.

The towering pine trees here were literally bluffed.

They were lied to and told that they would spend their existence growing in solitude,

shading the souls of the undeserving from intense southern heat.

Enclosing the mundane suburban houses while the people inside watch their T. Vs,

without a thought of gratitude towards those pines.

But their tormentors were wrong.

There is enchantment in this sleepy town,

if one would only have eyes to see.

Time stops in bounds of abandoned houses,

suffocated by foliage.

These places are perfect and generous.

Ivy flourishes on the gates and the window eyes are closed in contentment.

Listen,

listen,

and you will hear the deep green growing sound.

Like a perpetual violin's note,

like the shush of water lapping the insides of a hollow cave,

like the sound of a hummingbird's winds,

and the sound of warm hands holding you.

Can you hear it?