Smidgens
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.
Pine needles struck a cord with me and I was in trance until the end. Very well structured and nice choice of words here!
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Beautiful imagery!
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Thanks so much!
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Beautiful imagery. It really draws the reader into the experience with the author.
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Stopped by and was delighted to find such beauty! 🙂
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It’s such a beautiful use of words. I love that.
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Your words create an atmosphere I can sense surrounding me. I live in the Great Lakes region where we have lots of leaves but few pine needles,
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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.
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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.
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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.
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