Just as with that which is manifest
this ought be poetry and is instead merely
raw material for a poem to be written
if there’s time between now and the big then.

Just as with manifest, it means two things:

1) Conifer, noun. The root runs clear back to PIE, “swell”, as sap swells forth.

2) Pain. The main modern meaning of “to languish”, verb, is old too, 14th century.

Today I did ache obscurely while contemplating trees.

There is the one double pine, a piñon with two trunks of equal size rising from ground level.

Then there are the two much larger ponderosa twins by the library, something like a hundred feet away.

The path between them was more or less the track taken by the big pig herd a few weeks back.

The double pine is uninhabited as far as I know. Yet today at its base there was a team of twenty ants working slowly and steadily to move a stubby french-fry westwards. I watched for ten minutes and they made about five feet of progress.

The twin pines are rumored (by a trustworthy correspondent) to be inhabited by an owl, or maybe owls. I haven’t seen it, but I am keeping an intermittent vigil.

What does this loose collection of facts mean?

A good poem would not be overtly concerned with this question, but rather attempt to describe faithfully, and only allude obliquely, walk up crabwise, to meanings at all.

Elsewise, it is a breezy evening with a bright moon, warm by the recent October standard, and I have all the screened windows flung wide, a rarity.

Taken all together his doesn’t quite qualify even as a prose poem, because is it so lightly edited and spillish.

I do pine for it to be more and for everything to be more.