once stood converged with the sky. Now it teeters on the bank of the lake, roots hairy like Grendel’s mother, providing refuge for fertile muskrats creeping through its bones digging deep to nest. Kids discover it half-in, half-out of the water, play seesaw, dive off, climb on, and on, until—deadhead— it sinks.
Years later a diver will retrieve this tree: outer bark putrefied, its inside perfect. Called one hundred percent heart, resin will have kept it more stable, richly-hued than newly cut woods. I wish to mimic Pine: live with branches spreading high, wide; when old, be useful to the end,
then raised up—born again—be wholly revered.
Originally published in the Autumn 2013 issue of Bearings magazine.
Image: Giant White Pine by Joshua Mayer on Flickr, used courtesy of a Creative Commons License.
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Loved this one when we read it at Collegeville last year and love it still!