To me the marvel wasn’t the height but the rings,
after years of drought, of fires, calamity
not a year was wasted on you, still
a millimeter or two gained, ground won
standing tall and wide in a silent formation
one pillar of this cathedral by the ocean,
roots deep in salt and red sand, a sentry
of the bridge, gentle vedette over the bay.
You’ve always stood patient to the marveling,
a pine needle wreath around your feet, the growth
unimpeded by richer days or drying months,
with no mind to shoot up fast or wide, you
paid no time to any voice except one within
to grow at no one’s pace but your own
outlasting any who might object,
you’re still at work long past their deaths.
Would that I could be like you, a slow
and honest resilience that manifests
not in numbered leaves or treetop length,
but in the rings that showed my strength
of taking what the roots could find,
seeing not the scars but a course kept steady,
a promise to none but you and to me,
slowly birthing myself from the dust.
Hayley Stoddard lives in Colorado, and is currently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree. She believes that good writing leads to connection, and lessens the collective loneliness of humanity. She has been inspired by such writers as Billy Collins, John Keats, Emily Dickinson, William Wordsworth, Anne Lamott, Mary Oliver, and Leonard Cohen. Her work has been seen in or is upcoming in several publications, including Oberon, Eunoia Review, After the Pause, Eris+Eros, Drunk Monkeys, Sad Girls Club Lit, and Beyond Words Magazine.