The place resembles the wild hills,
dense with the grey columnar bodies
of pines, that I used to roam
with my best friend behind his home.
My steps provoke a subtle crunch
from the ground that is blanketed
with long copper needles and bulbous cones
that permeate the air with
that unique Carolinian scent.
Weaving myself through the trees,
those silent sentinels, until,
undoubtedly, I find myself
resting at their mighty feet.
And when the sun decides to hide
her face, ushering in the stygian black,
I’ll be there still, staring beyond
the tops of the trees pointing toward the
spangled dark, breathing in
the air that for two dozen years
I took for granted.