Pine

I am blue-blooded and exact.

I do not falter or hesitate when I step,

which is always. Seven paces

in the white down, even the candle

of the moon cannot touch this place.

I am a puppet to something

greater than myself, and its wires

are threaded through my hollow.

In the sun, I flicker.

Now, I speak. My voice wavers careful

and slow. I have practiced all my life.

Too quick, and the trap is sprung —

thick blue indistinguishable from shadow

stains the snow. The claw bites

and I writhe, exposed wires shining.

My body is a container for the nothing.

My body is thin and tough as pine.