West of Boston

Streaks of sun filter through bare pines;
Proud sentinels from an earlier age.
You turn your eyes upward to those vertical lines,
As dusk tempers another day's languid rage.

Here in nature's heart, your true peace,
The honeysuckle emerges with each warm Spring.
Snow and rain preordain such release,
And give way to May winds' beckoning.

Deep in the woods we find in our lives,
The pine needles offer little comfort underfoot.
Errant bees pester, then retreat to their hives,
As we, too, retreat: to our cities, and their soot.

One hopes, then, for blessing, for those
Who find blessed meaning in a wooded walk;
Who take the time to anticipate the rose,
And leave all behind to hear the pine trees' talk.