Pines: Cassandra Kulay

Bare and cragged rock faces, a hard sparkle
scented like eucalyptus and spearmint.
Blue darkening into a green haven for icicles
and ornament, needles as soft as carpet, a
plush growth of chlorophyll, the foundation
of waiting with years turning, in preordained
concordance to the seasons. Stopping with
the satisfied hum of motor cars, parents
standing outside a studio while pupils
captured in Degas are modelling, showing
an unselfconscious mobility, a relationship
with the floor, the bar, the air, the costume,
now emerge from their small world of
concentration. Eternal annuity lays heavy
as frost on a frozen windowpane in diligent
anticipation, a concert of firs and patience.
Some say they could watch it grow endlessly
to infinite attainment, embraced by the cold
spell of freedom to continue development
and never be checked by necessities or lengthy
domestication, by ceremony and justification.
There is a sharp note in the wilderness, the
howling of wolves.