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Jac-Lynn Stark was born in the Bronx and currently lives on the North Shore of Boston where she enjoys pondering life either from near the ocean or in the woods. She recently retired from 14 years of teaching English at Bunker Hill Community College in Boston. Some of her previous work has been published in Muddy River Poetry Review, Global Poemic, Drunk Monkeys, Zig Zag Folio, and forthcoming for an anthology called American Graveyard, calls to end gun violence from Read or Green Books.

Jac-Lynn Stark

Apology to a White Pine

All last spring I stalked you
circling close to your trunk
peering up through branches
and then walking backwards in every direction
neck bent to hold my head skyward
binoculars aimed high
seeking the secretive residents of your upper body
tufted ears, huge eyes, and fierce power
some have believed were spirits connected to death
and the underworld

but you, I saw you only as a dwelling
not appreciating your weathered bark like dragon scales
your majestic height, tallest tree in Eastern North America
you tower more than 100 feet over the gravestones around you
your unique shape, not straight like most of your kind
your bigger branches gracefully curved
like arms reaching for the sky while dancing

on this day when the veil is thin between the worlds
I wonder if the spirits of those buried here
will venture out after dark
a couple who died in the 1920’s
gravestone adorned with the Armenian flag
a minister who died in 1808
large stone with clear-cut carving and a cross
soldiers killed in the Civil and Spanish-American Wars
and the penniless women from Brookhouse
buried by the Association for the Relief of Aged and Destitute Women
rows and rows of small stones with just names and dates
these souls and many others
frolicking among carved memorials
while leaves fall like confetti
and you, white pine the Iroquois called the Tree of Peace
stand sentry as you have for more than 200 years

 — Jac-Lynn Stark

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