Poetry of Issue #7        Page 25

GIANT SEQUOIA

I know—
I’m a miracle.

I was a seed of hope
when men devised the alphabet.
Centuries passed, and my spine
grew and grew, until my furry top
scraped heaven.

Only two other plants, and God,
live longer.

Here’s one secret of my longevity:
shallow roots
that wind sideways, into the roots
of other trees. Most of the time,
we hold each other steady.

Fire, fatal to others,
perpetuates me.
After flames lick my bark,
it grows. The heat frees my seeds
from the cones I produce
by the hundreds. The seeds grow best
in soil cleared of green, fertilized
with ash.

My other secret is the tannin I make—
certain death
for invading bugs and fungi.
After all these years, I’m amazed
they keep trying to eat me.

My only enemies
are lightning bolts, wet snow,
high wind. Too much weight
on my muscled boughs
tips me. That’s when my roots rip
out of the earth, and I crash—
but it doesn’t happen often.

Sometimes I keep growing
lying down.

I am glad to see you, tourist,
but you stare like all the others
who’ve come by for millenia.
Do I make you feel
small and stupid? Do you wish
you were me?

  Jacqueline Coleman-Fried