Copihue Poetry

Pine needles are not real needles. 
They don’t injure fabric. Their bodies 
are tender and barely pierce the air.  
They are born green as spring but darken 
with winters, and in the end, 
their gloss is gone, and they turn gold. 
 
Pine needles live up high 
perched on a twig, sometimes visited 
by the birds, sometimes stroked by the breeze. 
They swing on their trunk like a mast 
in a sea of trees and observe the skies, 
 
and hold their breath 
when the storm begins to strike. 
 
The pine needles can’t hide or run, 
but live in tight bunches, 
hugging each other and clinging to their home, 
holding hands to withstand the brutal blows. 
Nobody knows the names of pine needles 
or hears their cries because they have no voice. 
 
So, the pine needles die silently. 
They simply fall and do no harm.