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.