Sequoiadendron giganteum I
If gods were trees
they’d be these
serene, undemanding,
creating nothing but sugar
and leaves. A thousand years
fire-hacked, snow-stacked
still standing
lacking nothing: eyes,
perspective, sunrise.
I, brief column
of pressure and salt,
praise each ruddy
steeple, each
fallen nurse
gridding
the forest with dendritic
birthdays; imagine
trees are gods with arms
spread; looking down
I say; imagine
God’s a tree
quick in me, blood-
lit, robust
solace of red.
