The Mountaineer Tree (JM)

(Joseph MacRae, poem revisted in response to prompt (Phillip Metres' One Tree; from On Being/The Well's Mindful Poetry Gathering), April 21, 2021)

The Mountaineer Tree

On the five mile drive,
at Point Defiance,
the huge Mountaineer Tree standing quiet.
Four hundred and fifty winters, it's understood,
he has stood like a silent sentinel.
I have passed this tree many times,
never stopping to admire.
The Red Man say "Wise old tree will talk,
Share with you much wisdom,
only White Man never ask"...
One day as I passed, I took the time to  stop and ask.
Like a spiritual voice, from the bowels of the Earth,
it came to me, from the tree,
in a voice that only I could hear.

More than four hundred fifty winters
I have watched over this Sacred Land.
In the springtime of my life
this was a quiet and beautiful land
ruled only by Great Mother's hand.
Baked in the sun, caressed by wind, washed by rain,
teased by lightning from the sky.
Only the moon and stars shone at night.
My only visitors were of the earth.
A quiet land.
I once remember
the song of birds, the call of animals,
the Red Man quietly paddling his
hollowed canoe.

As summer arrived with new and strange
beginning,
witnessed the first wooden ship,
sailing in on evening tide.
As men claimed this land, in foreign names,
in the name of Crowns, of Kings and Queens
across the sea!
From distant ports they came to trade.
Ships sailed in, and ships sailed out,
bringing new people of different color.
The air now full of new sounds, sounds of chopping,
of huge trees falling to the earth.
Of men at work, and beasts of burden,
carving a new civilization,
from a wilderness land.

Then came merchant ships, lumber schooners,
ships of war, and fishing vessels large and small.
Later came new sounds. Steam ships,
their whistles echoing across the waters.
The sawmill's song, as steel teeth and
timber meet, as steam locomotives
shake the ground.

My season turns to fall. The land and sky,
no longer free.
People and machines are moving faster.
The air is no longer fresh,
the water no longer clean.
Man tries to rule with fire.
Many brothers and sisters visit my park.
Some come to admire the beauty of nature,
others come for amusement and pass in haste.
Some come to play, and carve upon my bark.
throw bottles and waste against my feet.

I am strong. I have survived, through storms,
forest fires, and the hands of man!
I will be a mark on this land for
many more winters...
When the Great Mother takes back her land,
I will be here.
Long after I die I will stand like
a proud buckskin.
When I decay and fall to the ground,
my stump will stand as a tombstone.
My epitaph will be,

I have served this Earth.
I have taken care of her.
I have been the home to many of the
Great Spirit's creatures.
Listen to me brothers and sisters
of the Earth:
Be like a tree and serve your
Mother Earth!