Deciphering Pines

a prose poem

photo by author

I whisper an emphatic yes to the soundless sky, thinking anything that asks me for nothing can have it. There’s a strange silent guilt in January’s seventy; being halfway to nowhere is Florida’s whole gig. Summer squash surfs wind’s wave and stops for me, succulent, season’s correspondence irrelevant south of Savannah.

Sometimes I worry I’ll be lost in translation; my friends say my writing is allowed to be unreadable. All I really want is to recognize these pines – I study their cones like someone’s clues, classified.

Loblolly, slash, longleaf lost to the Man. Loose needles puncture hardened soles; I write lists of hardened souls I wish
to puncture.

Allie Wisniewski • 2021