The Sentinel

It catches the moon in its lofty limbs,
croons a tune on a summer wind,
titillates nostrils via drenching rain,
evokes bravos with sunlit snows.

Chipmunks and squirrels give merry chase.
Chickadees and blue jays romp and race.
The years go by.
The branches bow lower,

providing a sheltered, hideaway bower
for dreams and trysts and dolly tea parties.
Colors are softened.
Street sounds are muted.

It cozies us. It snuggles us.
I wonder if it misses us.

A pond is mine now, with willows eleven,
but I miss my pine, my stalwart sentinel,
with its magical, mystical, lively leaven
that links this earthbound me to heaven.

by Colleen Gordon

Send Comments to Greg Gordon MD, CFI, cydoc@earthlink.net
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