White Pine
As I go nearer the water, I’m drawn toward the old ship rocking slowly against its mooring— the one with a towering white pine mast. I pause, thinking back maybe five or even six hundred years to when that pine tree first broke through the black soil made fertile by the decayed needles of its ancient ancestors. That pine I now call the mast has traveled further than most trees, all while serving the most demanding master on Earth. The rhythmic swaying hypnotizes and gently reminds me, there are those we serve in life, and those we serve in our willingness to die.
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