For Ruth

For Ruth   

On Hunt Road road, the old pine's 

been losing her ground, who knows

for how long and who knows

how many have walked or driven by.

Numerous.  --And she's opposite

a tight curve so someone was avoiding

something oncoming--see where

there's a deep enough set

of gouges, down into 

her meat, and it's an old injury but not

old enough she's stopped

her drops of pitch from falling, right?

And I wonder if the thick dregs are her

way to cover what's been

dismissively done to her, a hit and run.

If you want to give her something

of your empathy--she's still

living and it's not this going 

which going to kill her--this pitch, 

thick with gravity, gives it the same shape

as weeping. I'm thinking to

appreciate her standing still

is a mercy too - listen - imagine it all

coming down to drops

of sap.  Is it the end of it when

they finally fall atop the moss and then

the moss is kicked off onto the tar

road and walked on or driven

over and stuck in the treads - the stick!

of the essence! I mean, isn't this something

of what we hold 

out for, that shiver of inspiration

we want to ripple and never diminish

because isn't it a lifetime

between seeing it and being struck

to the last stroke, the standing

back to see it 

finally needing to be, like 

cones or flown birds, pinched

and then let go?