Dialogue with the Oldest Tree in the U.S., whose Location is a Closely-Guarded Forest Service Secret

stilted woodlands / towering reliquaries

give me more than a whisper passed down

from the heavens / I wish to hear it arise

from the greened inlet of your mouth

& every worshipper gathered incredulous

amongst the woven roots wreathed

in shattered sunlight imagines

the tendrils caressing an open palm

applying a faint pressure reminiscent

of an arriving epiphany / a misplayed chord

in a masterpiece / a droplet signalling rain

an end to drought / the beginning of a flood

& no way to tell the difference —

the swallows prattle on at dusk / shattering

the silence with a story told a thousand times

only I know its origin / the names that were

changed / I am still alive & atoning for a sin

I never witnessed / & sure this world will soften

you up / the ridges redolent of so many hard edges

a mountain range forged from continents that

could not help but touch / & yes you might long

for sleep / to be dispossessed of your body

to forget that every building erects a foundation

for future rubble / if you run the chaff of my living

through somnolence’s sieve & stand in the remains

a patch of safe moonlight / for even the stars

throw down beams that have been seen

somewhere in the universe / your every future

will always be just glimpsed / yet denied by

concentric circles mapping a slow route

to the present where (still) (here) I stand