by ADRIENNE EGOLF
Longleaf pine trees
are born from fire
That consumes litter
on the forest floor
and leaves a soft bed
of mineral soil fit for a seed.
The month you were born—
twenty little bodies felled,
the president gave a speech
about our hearts
walking around outside us
and I wept
over the beginning of you.
As children, longleaf pines
look like little bushes,
low to the ground.
Long bendy needles,
bright green and pointy,
folding up around a tender
heart center.
You came home from kindergarten
with Pokémon cards
tucked in the front pocket of your lunchbox.
Grass and playground mulch
clinging to the socks inside your sneakers.
They taught you: Tuck your limbs
around your head and hide.
When longleafs reach adolescence,
they bolt toward the sky.
Long and spindly.
Unwieldy. Too skinny.
Outrunning the low, smoldering flames.
In your rocket stage—
hoodies with damp, pilly sleeves
hang just above your wrists.
Group chats, like smoldering embers
bounce across your eyes.
Fully grown,
longleaf pines are armed
with thick, raggedy bark.
their branches climb
above the canopy,
beyond the line of fire.
But what of the forests
that once stood sentry
outside your school,
along the sidewalk.
Mowed down by a machine.
We refused to protect them.
–
Adrienne Egolf is a climate change communicator for the global environmental organization, The Nature Conservancy, where she has worked since 2010. Based in Central Florida, she is interested in writing that explores parallels between the human experience and the natural world. She has written poetry since college. Her first publication is forthcoming in “Thimble Literary Magazine.”
© Adrienne Egolf
Halfway Down the Stairs 