Tonight they will gather, once more, to hear of the great sorrow she has suffered. The old queen, searching for her pendant, scans the water, pendent, a rack of broken necklaces, while the chastened buds push through the leaves, towards the light.
Small flowers emerge to blush.
They hang heads shyly, their silky hair woven over and under in braids. Even though buried sometimes, the strands are ongoing that the wind climbs, bearing pollen up the shifting ropes like a lover scaling a wall towards erect, unpetaled, downturned flowers. When he arrives, they stare lustlessly. What we do has been done before. White Pine Pinus strobus White pine.