Poetry

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Saint

​By Rowena Conahan

How can you tell
if a tree is a saint?
 
I turned around 
and there she stood, 
abristle in vivid green, 
her bark rippling with 
cinnamon scales, 
gnarled toes spreading, 
cradling cushions 
of moss. 
 
Her upraised arms 
praise the sky, 
welcome the chill mist 
of a mountain waterfall, 
humming thanks. 
 
All of these things 
make her a beautiful tree, 
even 
a majestic tree.
 
But no scale, 
root, 
cone, 
sap jewel 
or moss haven 
defines holiness.
 
So, how can you tell
​if a tree is a saint?
 
Her twisted body sang out: 
 
The centuries tick by 
as I stand on this rock.
 
I have witnessed the lives 
of countless creatures, 
many of whom call me 
home. ​

I have survived 
the crumbling 
of this mountain, 
boulders bouncing, 
skidding past me, 
spring floods 
scouring my perch. 
 
Here, in the sanctuary 
of my shade 
you may witness 
the miracles 
of nature:
 
hawk, 
spiderweb, 
bear cub, 
ice castle.
 
You may enjoy 
my protection.
 
You, too, 
may call me, 
home.
 
With a sigh, 
I laid my hand 
on her trunk, 
and the question 
rose up again:

​How can you tell
​if a tree is a saint?
 
I don’t know.
 
But I knew.
 
And I knelt down 
and wept.

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