{I have noticed recently in our area, that a lot of the old Southern pines are dying. It’s not clear why there seem to be more than usual, disease or lightning or old age? Or maybe I’m just now more keenly aware of the signs of death around me. I hope you will not find either the darkness of this rhyme, nor its simplicity, nor its repetition, too irritating. I can’t seem to resist a play on words, no matter how morbid.)
A lot of pines are dead or dying.
Hence, a lot of trees.
A lot of pines are dead or dying.
In their midst is me.
A lot of women, dead or dying,
Riddled with disease.
A lot of men folk, dead or dying.
In their midst is me.
And you–are you not dead or dying?
Who escapes the sieve?
The lot of us are naught but dying,
Long as we shall live.
Copyright 2019 Andrea LeDew
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