Cottonwoods

Sacred was the word she chose,
Sacred like the great cathedrals,
Carved of stone they slowly rose,
Built by hands both scarred and caloused.

Sacred too these ancient trees,
In a ring so neatly planted
By elders in the springtime breeze,
Whose gnarled hands knew many seasons.

Grandma Rae was ninety four
When she held me on her lap
Pouring out her ancient lore.
"Cottonwoods, they thought them sacred."

Standing in that ring, a boy,
I felt I knew the reason why.
I could feel the sacred joy
Of cotton silk on spring breeze borne.

And when the sun's rays filter down
Through cotton fluff lofted on high
It seems a halo or a crown,
While breezes sing a vespered song

And leaves all murmer in their voice
Praises, in that holy place.
In unison they all rejoice
The spirits of those bygone days.

And in the eve by firefly light
The whisperings of silent prayers,
While up above in deepest night
The milky ghosts of fallen braves.

It was the sod that made the plain,
From the Mississippi River
To the Rocky Mountain chain,
From Canada to Mexico

In winter snow and summer heat,
It blankets all this mighty land
Supporting native grasses sweet
For buffalo and antelope

Supporting too the elders here
Their weathered faces carved by time
Their eyes fixed on this "Last Frontier",
Their hearts attuned to spirit ways.

Grandma Rae said settlers came
And cut the sod to build their homes.
With a new frontier to tame
Plowed it up to plant their seeds.

For time unheeded in that sod
Had gone the bodies of the old,
The plants and creatures made by god
Rested there in soft repose.

When the buffalos were gone
The starved descendents of the land
Were either killed or moved along
While "sodbusters" ripped at the earth

Until at last the earth fought back,
Babies choking in their cribs,
While "dusters" turned the blue sky black
And swept away the farms and crops.

They scoured clean that sacred land,
They took it skyward in their wrath.
Leaving naught but dust and sand.
What happened to those ancient souls?

There is one being who would know,
Having stood the test of time,
Watching through the rain and snow
The troubles that have come to pass.

Like incense in a mortared apse
The cottonwood lets loose it's fluff.
A fluke? Or could it be perhaps
A tribute it has paid the past?