Far From the Tree

Sometimes I dream of that scrub pine woodThat place that teems with wind and where stoodScraggily trees and bushes cut lowBy storming seas where the salt winds blowAcross the bay and over the dune,Wind works its way still humming its tuneWith creaking pines that bend and that crackThat sound their whine, both forward and back,Where brambles grow and where needles fallWhere time is slow and where life must stall,As seas must storm and keep the warped treeBent to its form, hunchbacked by the sea,There the trees fight by nature’s commandLooking for light and bound to the land. Now I stand straight and I stand up tallBut at this rate someday I must fallBut scrub pines last like incorrupt boneThrough ocean’s blast they bend then atone.If I pray, God, please let me be soThen He might nod, as the salt winds blow.—Gregory Scalise ’18 is a Junior in Pforzheimer House studying Philosophy and the Classics.