Prickly with a gentle touch.
The sweet smell of childhood.
Sap sticking to my fingers as I sweep the needles with my hands, making a bed to lay my head and be still.
Still enough to watch the creepy crawly bugs marching on your branches.
Still enough, a small bird pops in to work on their nest.
Still enough to hear my mother calling me, knowing she cannot see that I am just a few steps away.
Still enough, I can feel the sun trying to penetrate the needles and shine on your spring branches.
Still enough, I see your skin is brown, black, green, and blue with a hint of mustard yellow.
Still enough, I wonder how many needles you carry and how many you have lost.
Still enough, I have convinced myself when winter arrives, I’m going to climb to your peak and crown you with lights.
Still enough, I wake up and realize I no longer want to be still.
Your canopy is grand.
Your shade is inviting.
Thank you for sharing your space where I can be me while I am hiding.