Whispering Pines

Alone again, 

in the dry, sandy pinelands. 

Wandering,
without aim, 

in the sandy, silent barrens.

Silent, 

save for muted, melancholy murmurs,

the scarcely whispered secret-telling,

of the towering longleaf pines.

Alone cannot exist, 

nor silence,

beneath the lofty longleaf awning

where the wanderer 

walks and listens

'midst ipecac, thistle and rue. 

Life, though sparse, 

is thriving

in the dry and sandy spaces

betwixt the burly blackened bolls

of the ancient longleaf clan.

And with the onset of the gloaming, 

the mind as well may wander,

to a sunny far off childhood,

nigh forgotten;

where hours were whiled away 

in the lichen-covered, 

dry and sandy spaces, 

dreaming boldly of the future,

with sympathetic kin,

and the mysterious mumbled musings of the pines. 

Awakened from our reverie

by the late day chill,
we hear the whispers resolve
in syllables clear;

Welcome home, child.
Welcome home...