Sunday, August 23, 2015
The pitch pine is a plain-man tree
Rough with masculinity
Any seeing man can see.
Its needles are no tree-girl's dress.
It scorns all pretty-prettiness.
Better the ornament the less.
The land it loves is any land
With plenty of stone, plenty of sand.
For dainties it makes no demand.
Small tufts of needles here and there
Bristle from the bark like hair
On a man's knuckle, in his ear.