Wild Grace
Diann Manes
Dear Mother Cottonwood , I love your crooks and turns , your ragged claws and tangled limbs . Your dark , shadowy bark calls to me . That rough stuff that clothes your wide body .
What secrets are hiding in your solid past , so thick with memory and mystery ?
All the while , smooth new branches wrap themselves in white and stretch toward the sky . Do they carry your hope ?
The wind rises . Gusts begin to unsettle our space together . They stir your leaves and rustle the pages of my journal . Hints of wildness in a universe in danger of being too certain , too tied down .
Questions swirl and echo in my mind .
I ’ m worried ... Where are your bright green new buds ? ( Your neighbor trees are sprouting out all over .) Is it too late for you , my elder friend ? I hope not . I ’ m right here by your side .
A hawk glides smoothly high overhead . Far-seeing , perhaps she knows something you and I don ’ t .
Believe in me ! you say .
See how my limbs are tearing at the sky ? There ’ s fierceness here , and free for the taking . Sense heat from the sun , how it makes your blood flow and lights fire in your cells . Open your heart . Open your belly . Open your arms and receive .
Oh , now I see –– green peeking through . ( You ’ re budding out in plenty of time .)