I stand alone
in my great height.
I cherish nothing
more than my own roots.
The decay of the world
is my nourishment.
What happens below me
passes like the floss
from autumn milkweed;
And the stars
are no more than the hum of gnats
tossing in the vault
of my summer shade.
Not death not grief
not the thunder of human history
sways the vast and wrinkled
stone of my trunk.
My joy is in the sun
and the rain and the passionate
art of the wind
stirring like a lover
the enormous green play
of my branches.
What dies beneath me
finds no pity,
but in time is taken up
and sent out briefly to dance:
a nameless leaf in the wide
blue music of the weather.
And you, far below,
with your small face
looking up, I have no need
for homage.
Your human heart
is no more to me than a sparrow’s
egg blown from its nest.
But if sometimes
out of loneliness or a desperate
urge to praise
you would seek me out,
then press your faint hand
reverently against
the ancient hide of my bark.
In a hundred years
your touch will travel through
each ring of my immense
armored heart, to tell me
you were here.
