Bald Cypress

Oldest tree, where Black River old-growth weathers wetland over millennia. Your ancient sinker roots in dank swamp muck. Primordial conifer, Are you the sacred tree of Artemis, or part of Aristotle’s potential actualizing? What epic epoch do you realize? What timeworn bones in your woodland knobby knees? Your primeval bark peels the pages. Your hoary trunk holds the saga in wooden tissues of flood and drought, fire and freeze. Patient and resolute, growing, undergoing, unrelenting in the passage of episodes. The endless patterns of wild came and died. You watched liars lie and cheaters cheat. You watched men in war and peace like brief mosquitoes. What human acquaintance impressed you? Was it Native Americans you first encountered? Your bare boughs advance aloft in steady penetration, a secret sapience silently submitted. We, the fleeting fevered furious might grasp your stable constant lessons of careful exhibition. You reach ever and ever for larger continuance, pending purpose for your conscientious growth. Life’s intention is your sufficiency. Flourishing in your adapting seasons. Yes, we too can reach and rise in rapture.