Storied Pines


Today I grew old enough to plant my Pines
as father had planted his, so now I do mine
while we were younger we played amongst his
a small grove of boughs, a magical land for kids
we played hide ‘n’ seek and cowboys and Indians,
through  youthful eyes we missed the stumps
strewn all around our shenanigans
how could we have missed the stumps?

Father always did avoid that patch of wood
always hollering to us from the house
today I grew to sadly know why he would
as my uncles came pouring in from neighboring towns
they cut down the Pines where brother and I once played
each tree they crafted with storied hands
they too had planted Pines to make into boxes where later they’d be laid
growing boxes in in patches on their land

As their fathers had and now do I
dig my these holes to fill with roots of Pine
I hope that when they come to collect these trees
I would have made my father proud
having raised strong boys and my share of work and time on my knees
so my boys will plant their Pines too, to carry the tradition ’round


4 Responses to “Storied Pines”

  1. ionnes said

    Great sentimental poem. 3rd stanza is my fav. Thanks for posting it.

  2. Very nice… echoes with history and your personal tie to it, which always makes for a solid theme. Maybe write another one in ten years and see how they’ve grown?

    • Vic said

      Joseph, I’m not going to be buried in no Pine box! I’m going to have a proper Viking funeral where everyone is drinking, then I’m set adrift on a massive floating pyre which is to be lit by a flaming arrow(s) as I set out to sea. I think I’ll have to write a piece about it before it happens.

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