Looking out the kitchen window
I notice the white pine we planted.
I think of the day you brought it home
from school, a small sapling.

We planted it in the tall grass and brambles
at the edge of the common land,
where the mowers wouldn’t go
and the deer might not notice,
a well-drained place, with sun all day.

Over the years, your white pine
blended into its surroundings,
drawing our eyes only on occasion.
I see it now, grown tall and strong.



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