The pines have grown tall;
handsome in their emerald trappings,
their balsam scent pleases the air.
Decades ago when I moved here
they were foot high saplings, shrinking
from the wind. Tonight they engage in flirtation
when it whispers past them.
In branch tip touch with their neighbor,
they make no demands of each other.
They accept the storm without question.
They accept the sun as a benevolent kiss
Their splendid backs bent or straight,
each day is a celebration. Engaged in play
or test of will, the pines stand strong.
Their roots are firm.