Axis mundi, tree at the center of the universe
Stay with me, little light.
Outside in winter coats, firs stand around.
and show with apparent parental patience
why Native Americans call them grandfathers.
while other trees bend in the icy wind
and no one is there to hear—
Zen riddle, like a one-penny tip
from a hostile patron)—
as trees rustle old limbs, drop things, make cracks, push back,
nurture each other, and generally get on with it—
if whole forests clap with biblical zeal, and we don’t take a stance
even now when earth’s central tree’s wobbling as never before—
This poem appears in the January 15, 2020 issue.
