I took my key, I stood outside,
I looked up at the sky;
I could not count the needles, they
were growing way too high.
I scrutinized the bark instead—
I looked it in the eye.
I broke some puzzle pieces off
that giant scratchy chest,
And right there underneath I found
the color of the west—
The very stuff the robin surely
uses on its vest.
The bark was split by canyons,
every one of them was grand;
Some insects were exploring in
this horizontal land,
And one set out to study my
mysterious giant hand.
I pressed my ear against the bark
where nothing crawled around;
The wind was in the needles, and
I heard a hissing sound;
I heard the big bole flexing from
the tip down to the ground.
I looked straight up the trunk again;
the clouds were going fast,
And for one dizzy moment there
the tree became a mast
And I was riding Earth somewhere—
and then the moment passed.
The wind got stronger, and it must
have snapped a branch-tip free;
I saw it fall, as if the tree
had tossed it down to me;
I picked it up and counted, and
I looked into my key.
I crushed some needles and they smelled
so potent and so clean;
I found the page and learned the name—
the drawing there was keen—
And now they grow all over, where
before it was just green.