because naturally upon entering 
	you lower your voice
because through branches up high
	fluffs of fog drift 
	in shafts of sunlight 
because you’ve met this feeling
	in cathedral, mosque, temple

because a redwood seems always
	to know what it’s doing

because your body feels small
because your spirit grows large

because a redwood with its power 
	will never preach
	makes no demands
	sips from the clouds
	swallows the sunlight
	shelters the chipmunk, the owl, you
because a redwood takes the long view

because the redwood withstands flame
	has kinship to stone, to river and earth
	to the patience of stars
	to the holy

because you forgot the question
	but a redwood grove 
	is the answer

Kew Gardens, London
                        

Fifty years ago chatting, 
brewing coffee in a Sears metal pot
in that dumpy kitchen in St. Louis 
if you asked where we imagined 
our marriage would take us,
a redwood forest would not figure 
into the answer. 
But here we stand.

Fun is transient.
Strength, uplift, roots,
that’s joy. 

Half a century 
weathering changes
passes in a blink.
Ask any sequoia.

May the roots tickle my bones.
May my blood rise as tinted sap.
May the over-abundant hair of my body
	become filaments of shaggy bark.
May my dreams flow to cones, become seed.
May my words whistle with the wind
	spreading stories, tall tales.
May the hawk build a nest at my crown,
	may fox pups play at my hollow.
May I resist the rot, repel the insect,
	and when at last I fall
may I be sectioned, milled, notched and nailed, 
may I become the soul of a house
	peopled with children,
	crafted with love.