Giant Redwood
Your first thought when you see a giant redwood (head in the clouds, feet in a sea of ferns) is how many yous across it is, how many yous will fit in there. The far back and not so far back. How many pasts, how many futures? Is it living a life for all of you? The distant past not so distant here. The past still present in a tree somewhere, each past still living in a tree. Or how you know you’re old when things grow over you, breath of moss condensing, lichen coral reef (your bark in ribbons of baleen, trunks of heat-curled hair). Or how time speeds up on different parts of you. The body hollowed out, biggest echo chamber, your crown still in the sky, breathing heart of green. Your last thought when you see a giant redwood will be how few escaped us, nothing certain, survival not certain anywhere. A bird forgets its nesting site at the swan of summer, a rodent forgets its burrow, we’ll forget how time traps us (a hole filled with distractions), but a tree will keep remembering.
HANNAH RODABAUGH is the author of Lost Cathedral (forthcoming, Cornerstone Press) and three chapbooks of poetry. Read more.