Wet Pine Needles

Running the brittle floor—upon leaves settled to soil.

With mild hands wandering—through air and pressed sunlight.

Becoming branches—breaching the film of moist sky.

Clinging to winter’s sun—lucent thoughts, fictile.

Moving with the wildness—of the warm, fragile body.

Its abstractions of molds—ravines, dips, and death.


Wet pine needles held in a beam of furtive light.




10 Comments on “Wet Pine Needles

  1. Beautiful imagery. It really draws the reader into the experience with the author.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. These were Yosemite pine needles and they did get into everything. My dad was OCD and simply could not stand them. I like the memory. He now has dementia and cannot remember the effort he went through to rid us…or should I say, himself, of the sticky little things. I was raised in CA but have lived most of my life here in WA. He was amusing but not to my mother. He made camping so much work. But I enjoyed going nonetheless. Have a good holiday if you celebrate. Be well.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Lol. It must have been entertaining to watch him make the attempt. Depending on what side of the Cascades you’re on here in the PNW, the pine needles can change drastically. On the west side, they’re the small little ones from Douglas firs that pile up in corners or become specks on a trail. On the east side, they are a half foot long from Ponderosa Pines and layer sometimes for a few inches creating a spongy feeling to the ground.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. A beautifully written poem. It makes you see pine needles in a whole new way. When I was a girl, my dad hated pine needles. Whenever we went camping he endeavored to make sure there were none in the tent. A quite impossible undertaking.

    Liked by 2 people

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