To see a tree, go to a tree.
Who could need god less
I can give up hope for a little while
than this cypress with its rough bark,
color of tarnished silver, deep trenches
running up and down the trunk
as though rivers once carved its hide.
If I sat here long enough,
I could see the xylem and phloem travel,
the way if you stare at your own hand,
the streams of blue-green blood begin
to flow, tendons sliding below the skin.
The great tree god surrounded by the
humble legions of the grass gods.
For a moment I stop trying to gather
the lost blessings of my own small country.
The setting sun slants through the branches,
sinking into its dark, thick scales.
Here is a being who breathes me in
as I breathe out. What other god
is so reliable, so devoid of miracles?