A sonnet, written at the edge of the Pacific while on vacation this morning:
A solitary Bishop Pine leans
Back into the continent
Its lifeless seaside shoulder
A tangle of twigs and bare branches
Scrubbed gray by blasts of fog.
Dead wood that mysteriously
Shelters life in its lee—
Where slender, supple,
Paired needles quiver and nod greenly
Now, in a soft morning breeze
That whispers gently offshore
Under a last quarter moon
Sailing west to set just past noon.