by Donna Poole
Except for the constant sighing in the wind, no one had said a word in one-hundred years. That’s a long time to be silent, even for a pine tree. The three pines stood on a hill at the edge of town. The nearby farmhouse had long ago burned.
Woodstock and Kiefer had been dozing in the afternoon sun when Phyllis startled them awake.
“Old man Douglas would be proud if he could see how tall we are now. He called us his perfect pines. We were only a foot tall when he planted us.”
Woodstock’s voice sounded grainy from lack of use. “Well, he’d be the only one proud of us. I don’t think anyone else has noticed us since he died.”
“That was such a long time ago.” Kiefer’s voice sounded dreamy. “Time flies, doesn’t it? What have you two been thinking about?”
Phyllis sighed and a few of her cones dropped to the ground. “I’ve been thinking perhaps I should give up my dream. My name means green bough, and I’ve always wanted to be a Christmas tree, or perhaps become fragrant wreaths to give people joy during the holidays. But what good have I been here?”
Woodstock said, “Years ago I thought my name meant I’d end up in someone’s home as furniture, or paneling. I would have been happy even to become a floor—anything useful. But, year after year, I’ve stayed on this hill, of no good to anyone.”
Kiefer was silent. A few hours passed. Cars drove by on the two-lane road below. It was too soon for peepers, but a few red-winged blackbirds sang their early spring songs. And mourning doves fluttered and cooed in the branches of the three pines.
“What about you, Kiefer? Do you know what your name means? Did you have any dreams that long ago faded into regrets?” Woodstock asked.
Kiefer chuckled. For an old man, his laugh had a young, almost musical sound. “My name means pine. Just pine. Nothing fancy about my name, but I’ve always hoped to be a part of literature. The pine tree is even mentioned in the Bible.”
Phyllis interrupted him. “How do you know that?”
“Didn’t you listen when Old Man Douglas read his Bible out here all those mornings?”
She sighed. “Kiefer, books are boring.”
“What? I think books are the most wonderful thing in the world!”
“So that’s what you hoped to be?” Woodstock asked. “You wanted to be pages in a book?”
“Not exactly. I didn’t want to be a book. I wanted to be in a book.”
“You lost me there, buddy.”
“Okay, listen. Years ago, a beautiful girl in a long dress walked from the farmhouse and sat underneath my branches. She opened a little book and read something I’ll never forget, a poem called “The Secret” by Dora Sigerson Shorter. I only remember the first verse. It said, ‘I know of a thrush’s nest, a pretty nest, a cosy nest, I know of a thrush’s nest with three fine eggs of blue; It is in the perfumed pine, the tasselled pine, the swaying pine, It is in the cool dark wood that I have wandered through.’ She smiled, went back to the farmhouse, and I never saw her again. But I never forgot her or that poem. Ever since I’ve wished someone would write a poem about me, about all of us. Maybe the poem could talk about the mourning doves that nest in our branches. That would make us of some use, right? People would read about us and smile.”
Woodstock sighed. “All I know is none of us got our dreams. None of us were useful to people. And even if we live another hundred years, it’s not likely anything will change. No one even notices us here.”
And fifty more years passed with the pine trees standing silently on the hillside.
It was another sunny afternoon. The trees dozed in the warmth. Cars drove by on the two-lane road below. It was too soon for peepers, but a few red-winged blackbirds sang their early spring songs. And mourning doves fluttered and cooed in the branches of the pines.
The pines awoke to the unusual sound of human voices. A young couple was standing near what was left of the foundation of the old farmhouse.
“Look at this, Jenny. This is where Great Grandfather Douglas built his house. And he planted those three pine trees. My grandmother told me he called them his perfect pines.
He took her hand and led her to the trees. He spread a blanket on the ground, and they sat together.
“Tom, what is that sad cooing sound?”
“Those are mourning doves. They mate for life.”
Tom was quiet for a minute, but a deep red color crept up his neck into his cheeks. “Jenny, I…”
“These really are perfect pines, Tom! How many years do you think they’ve stood on this hillside?”
“I’m not sure exactly, but at least a hundred and fifty.”
“Think of the storms they’ve survived! The ice and snow, wind and rain, and they’re still standing! The pines smell like perfume, and the way they sway almost seems like they’re talking. I’d love to sit under these trees every day.”
Tom’s words tumbled out. It wasn’t the speech he’d planned, but he couldn’t get Jenny to stop talking. “Jenny, I’d like us to stand together like these trees through all of life’s storms. I wish we could stay together the rest of our lives like the mourning doves. I want us to build a house where Great Grandpa Douglas built his. Then you could sit under these trees whenever you want.”
“Tom Douglas, are you asking me to marry you?”
“I love you, Jenny. Do you think you could be happy with me?”
She answered with a kiss and the wind whispered gently through the three perfect pines.
Phyllis pictured a front door with a Christmas wreath made from a few of her boughs. Woodstock decided he didn’t want to be cut down; he’d stay and see the rest of the story. Kiefer wondered if Jenny would read books under his branches.
When the young couple left the trees swayed silently. There were no words for this kind of joy. They’d been part of the sweetest poetry ever lived, sentences repeated a million times through thousands of years, words that never grow old.
The end
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.
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