Water-beaten, whitened,
their branches shorn to stubs,
two massive pines lie
on a low ledge by the Atlantic.
A storm flung them here.

When deep soil fostered them,
they spired high, lifting
toward sun. Then they tumbled,

and the sea, that mesh of lashes,
tumbled them. They plummeted
and rose, plummeted, rose, shedding
needles, bark, all the forest graces.
Heaved by waves for years—
and they did not shatter.

Then loss came to an end.
Oblivion released them. By day
their hard salts gleam, and when
night comes they do not dim
but float upon dark into view.