Pale and threaded,
the needles nest in rough patches
releasing the scent, resinous
of pine forests
and her true home.

Tall trees stand
in her dreams, waking
and sleeping. I brush
the leaves from her hair.

Gathering fog,
I nest my heart in clouds,
its hollow sound echoing
with the song of autumn
and loss.

(This is a repost of a poem written last fall)