by Charles Venable
Black pines don’t grow here;
They say their wood is harder,
Old growth with whirling patterns
Spinning so tight together that
When I force a nail into the wood,
The only thing that splits is me.
Semi-trucks stop on the street
With loads of fresh lumber,
Yellow pines, soft to the touch;
He promises each will still stand
Twenty to thirty years,
It’s pressure-treated, just in case.
But when the cathedral in Paris
Burned up into the sky,
Only stone was left behind,
Stone and a golden cross —
But there are no trees left
Big enough to become a crucifix.
All the trees in America grow in rows,
Straight like the beams of the cross;
Walk for days and see nothing but pines.
Once, I walked to the next town over.
I stopped beside a burned-out church
The pastor burying an empty gas can.
Charles Venable is a storyteller from the Southeastern United States with a love of nature and a passion for writing. He believes stories and poems are about getting there, not being there, and he enjoys those tales that take their time getting to the point.
