I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech-tree, or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines.
~Henry David Thoreau
You can live for years next door to a big pine tree, honored to have so venerable a neighbor, even when it sheds needles all over your flowers or wakes you, dropping big cones onto your deck at still of night.
I hear you call, pine tree, I hear you upon the hill, by the silent pond
where the lotus flowers bloom, I hear you call, pine tree.
What is it you call, pine tree, when the rain falls, when the winds
blow, and when the stars appear, what is it you call, pine tree?
I hear you call, pine tree, but I am blind, and do not know how to
reach you, pine tree. Who will take me to you, pine tree?
~Yone Noguchi “I Hear You Call, Pine Tree”
Our wet side of the state is not pine tree country — they prefer the dry climate east of the mountains. Once planted here, however, they take hold and make the best of their wet feet.
The tall pine along our barn driveway must be at least sixty years old — it is starting to look its age, as am I. Sure, there are some bare branches, a few brown needles, yet it still drops cones in the hope of a future generation of pine seedlings. The squirrels are too fast and whisk the seeds to their hideaways before they can sprout and take hold.
This old acquaintance of mine, this venerable pine and I, we may sway in the breeze and be bent by ice and snow, but we weather the years together. After all, our roots go deep and our arms reach to the sky.