Clear your head, 
they say, 
and I agree, 
except I cannot 
clear my hand 
without clear air 
and pine scent carried 
down the hill. 
 
In spring I could sit 
on the bench between the lilacs 
and bury my lungs 
in the sweet exhilaration 
 
In fall, the flowers are gone, 
but the pines come through, 
and carry me away. 
 
Once my lungs are full, 
and my head is clear, 
those pines will carry me home.