Ol' Cottonwood

Old Cottonwood says,

My body is an ocean bed.

Old Cottonwood says,

The soil won’t mix itself;

that’s why it kneads my roots!

Old Cottonwood says,

I wear a gown of fresh green in Spring,

silvergreen in Summer;

in Autumn I wear a gown of golden coins.

I wear only the wind in winter.

Old Cottonwood says,

The raven is chortling at my window

while the earthworm sobs at my door.

Old Cottonwood says,

I am the last in my line;

To whom can I teach my tears?

When storm stretches the canyon sky

into a wide blue drumskin

and plays the drumskin sky with lightning beaters,

which seedlings, I wonder, will hear

my story-rattle shaking thunder, shaking, shaking

for Beauty’s cause?

Old Cottonwood says,

You humans with your quick minds

bent on achievement,

do you think you can fathom me?

Only when you grieve with arms wide-opened

will you win the applause of my leaves.