the pine.Eighty-three year old eyes
haunted eyes
by sight of old things
tired fingers, worn hands, foggy mirrors and her garden gloves.
the door creaks on one hinge, it whines
it opens slow and he sees again
the pine
his frail teeth clamp together and his lips tremble
the pine
trembles of a reminding wind
the way the tabacco fields only grew with her
her by her farmers side
helping at harvest time
but time haunts his eyes
and time chills his spine
and he can't turn away
his eyes from the pine.
