Pines stand in this world as tall as a lightning strike, usually beneath a dubious sky. They are odiferous and sticky, and much given to sough and birr. The Pine, a tree when it gets to that, regards whimsy with whimsy, and so should you. Barred from distant travel, Pines grab hard the land. Their best trick is the pinecone, also called strobilus for the fun of it. These planetary dainties fall into the category of gymnosperms and can only be released from that name when used decoratively. The Pine is not just a conifer, it is an evergreen, which certainly gives you plenty to think about. Long verdant winters tell the tale for the pine. Its plucky needles perform photosynthesis as easy as kiss my hand. Staunch Pines stand strong thru the seasons, abiding like a plainsong. You would do well to follow their lead.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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