Sometimes I dream of that scrub pine wood

That place that teems with wind and where stood

Scraggily trees and bushes cut low

By storming seas where the salt winds blow

Across the bay and over the dune,

Wind works its way still humming its tune

With creaking pines that bend and that crack

That sound their whine, both forward and back,

Where brambles grow and where needles fall

Where time is slow and where life must stall,

As seas must storm and keep the warped tree

Bent to its form, hunchbacked by the sea,

There the trees fight by nature’s command

Looking for light and bound to the land.

 

Now I stand straight and I stand up tall

But at this rate someday I must fall

But scrub pines last like incorrupt bone

Through ocean’s blast they bend then atone.

If I pray, God, please let me be so

Then He might nod, as the salt winds blow.

Gregory Scalise ’18 is a Junior in Pforzheimer House studying Philosophy and the Classics.

 

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