Where Jack Pine Watches
The fae of these woods wear no crown of light—
They bear the dusk, the snow, the bite.
Cloaked in needles, cloaked in smoke,
They speak in resin and ash-choked oak.

These Fae are not fair, but they are true—
The spirits born when storms blew through.
The kind who watch, not intervene,
Who guard the glade no eye has seen.

One such fae—his silence stone, manner stark—
Stands rooted where wolves once left their mark.
Still, where granite cliffs meet the sun—
He waits where voices do not come.

Where winds cut sharp, silence holds the stone,
Jack Pine twists, gnarled deep and lone.
Not green with grace, nor tall with pride—
But fierce with fire the frost can’t hide.

He survives in lands the softer trees deny,
With bark like armor, reaching to the sky.
No soil sings here—just grit and grief—
Yet Jack Pine grows with stubborn leaf.

He does not ask what brought you low.
He kneels where fire once dared to go.
And from the crack that flame released,
He shapes a strength that grants you peace—

His purpose, on this granite cliff,
This solid rock when storm skies shift,
Rooted in iron, skin grown rough.
Is to bear you up, when you’ve had enough.

For Jack Pine blooms not in fertile cheer,
But after loss has scorched the year.
And those who kneel beneath his bough
Learn to live with sorrow—some how.

So leave your offering—under his bent spine—
And tell your truth, no false design.
If Jack Pine hears and finds you brave,
He’ll lend you strength the fire gave.

But speak no lies beneath his tree—
For Jack Pine demands painful honesty.