The Jack Pine

It hung on my Mother's wall for as long as I can remember.
A tiny replication of the original masterpiece,
but when I looked at it, oh, how it took me places!

Gnarled and twisted, itself a work of art
carved by the cruel north wind, 
the tree stood beckoning, and eagerly I joined it!

It was perched on a rocky outcrop
no less misshapen than the tree,
years of wind and waves having sculpted 
the curves and crevasses that called to me —

to run my fingers across their surface
and feel the strength and the life of the rock;
explore the creases of its aged facade;

to climb across it’s rugged shelf and sit 
with my back to the wind, my face to the lake,
and watch as the breeze dragged its fingers across the water;

and listen, as the old jack pine sang
a tune known only to the wolves, the loons — and me,
while the setting sun slowly disappeared
behind the hills across the lake.


january 2005
©Janet Reid





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