Blog # 153 (poesie) THE LUMBERYARD (Redux-“Majestic Spark”)

We remember a trip to the “Peachtree State”
The fine City of Atlanta, to be exact.
Our hotel was the Peachtree Hotel,
Located right on Peachtree Plaza.
Looking around, we saw no peach trees,
Only lots and lots of pine trees,
Acres and acres, all pine trees.
Maybe peaches grow elsewhere in Georgia,
Maybe in North Carolina.
Here grow pine trees, lots of pine trees.

We motored to Eastern Long Island
There are so many pine trees there,
We’re told it is called the Pine Barrens.
So many, many pine trees.
We’ve travelled much, and elsewhere
They, too, seem to feature pine trees.
We always wondered at such great supply
Until past Saturday, then we knew.
It stays alive all the year–
The ready inventory of pine,
Until needed and called for.
That mortal lumberyard of pine.

With shovels bearing cemetery soil,
We prayed at the graveyard service
Upon the signal, threw the soil
Out and down and heard it thud
Upon her newly made pine box,
Sadly crafted at the lumberyard.


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Retired from the practice of law'; former Editor in Chief of Law Review; Phi Beta Kappa; Poet. Essayist Literature Student and enthusiast.

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