The ancient one stood on a bank remote
Overlooking a stream,
Where dark at noon the water flowed
In the shade at his feet.
In springtime, when the mayflies rose
To dance their hour of love,
He basked in the joy of new growth
And held the spring in his arms.
When thousands fell at Gettysburg dead
And Custer the hatchet felt on his head,
He felt the sun of summer days
And dreamed of his heaven
In the long, warm evening haze.
His needles were brown
When Kennedy went down;
His boughs bent with snow
Through the winter sleeping
When Russia saw Napoleon retreating,
Men starving, freezing,
Their horses eating.
In time,
His branches lower swung,
His face bowed to his own reflection,
Unseen, unsung.
One night in winter,
Boughs loaded with snow,
He toppled silently, slow,
Roots tearing frozen soil,
Long branches crushing ice,
Penetrating the stream's muddy bed--
Sprawled, face flattened,
Feeling freezing water,
Finding his end.
Spring's flood rocks the carcass,
Lifts, tugs at limbs submerged,
Sways his trunk so it groans;
Moving water, irresistible force,
Rotates the corpse into a bend,
Shoves it against the bank;
Some limbs splinter, some extend.
In summer he rests on wet sand exposed;
On the bank above, tall marsh grass grows
As one day comes and another one goes.
Needles fall;
Over years bugs crawl,
Bark disappears, decay advances
Until curved, white branches
Rise like dinosaur bones,
From black water that flows slow,
While mayflies dance their dances,
Silently like snow.
An enormous, very old white pine I remember