I see you and think Australia,

Bunya Pine. You’re less Christmassy

than the Norfolk—they get all the

gifts, praise and beachfront real estate.

Yet you provide timber floors for

Queenslander homes and pine soundboards

for fine guitars. You stand tall, your
wiry, fishbone frame, laddered. Straight

branches—paralleled—skeleton

brocade on a trooper’s breast. Like

plantation regiments; your bursts

of evergreen gunfire right at

the end. You’re dropping deadly bombs

without warning—ten-kilo seed
cones falling on unsuspecting

walkers. But you’re food for thought. You

fed the dinosaurs, too—wise old,

ancient you. And just ask those who

know their bush tucker, they’ll tell ya:

“Fella, no tree coulda outdone

ya.” Yeah, you’re a good stick, Bunya.