The last slithers of sunlight
streak across the pine trees
daddy planted when I was a kid.
Now, they’re at least as tall as I am old,
arms reaching to the sky,
needles splayed casting shade
out into the yard and down on the creek.
I’ve seen these trees from every angle
for as long as I can remember,
a background of childhood
taken for granted
as I climbed on their skinny limbs,
gathered needles for concoctions,
swung in hammocks fastened from trunks.
I stare at them now, wondering
when they grew tall enough to cover
the peaks of the hills,
when their limbs laced in patterns
thick enough to block the light,
when so many years
managed to escape my mind.