Sixteen pines mark my quarantine transect
this little quadrangle a world of worlds
of being and becoming
of platonic forms shaping
future dream etudes where I
spin in Fibonacci circles to see it all
and always fail
These sixteen pines a Myrmidon crew
serving petulant songbirds dashing
from light to shadow
Their songs the hymns of Ithaca
the hymns I have always known
Well, such is the aviary
these sixteen pines
a mighty dialectic
C.B. Crenshaw 