The Cottonwood Tree/ first draft

Drifts of cotton snow
Line the roadway.
In the air they spin and dance on invisible currents.
First up,
then away,
finally resting,
from it labor
rebirthing,
to a giant someday…
a seeming sturdy tower
(the heartwood’s cracked whispered the wind…)

It’s branches reach to cradle the clouds on it’s fingertips.
The mud sucks at the surface roots and overcomes the radicle-
the aggregate of leaves-foliage-articulates the language of the wind.

Lone,
a solitary figure,
nestled in the pasture slope,
fencing the wheat field
from the cattle.

Our playground,
A slippery slide to the ditchy depths
of thunderstorm excess.
The sun, incandescent, heat radiating,
Scorching freckles on our arms.
We could smell the wheat ripening
Golden and glorious.
We shelled and crunched the seeds between our teeth
as we forged a path and played hide and seek with our dog.
(Run. Run. Leap.)
He bobbed and weaved through the strands…

The Cottonwood tree sheltered in its arms (branches)
the ladybugs in winter, the cattle in summer,
cottontails with poofy cloud tails, shying from chicken hawks and coyotes,
Bull snakes feasting on field mice,
and two little girls running from the reality of a Father’s impending death.

We’d wrapped our sun burnt arms around the scabrous trunk –
rub our tender noses in the cracks,
smelling secrets,
whispering to the cambium our desires.
The itchy bark against our forearms,
Sweat drying
and prickly heat robbing our shade.
We’d strip to undies,
Fling our clothes to flop against the shallow roots.
(We feared our mother’s anger over muddy clothes)
The toast water skimmed over our freckled skin
till our eyes peered out froglike.
It was heavenly hypnotic in its coolness and forbiddingness.

Later walking home, abreast the ripening heads of winter wheat,
The dog scouting our path,
We were lost amidst the wheat, the sun, and our impending sorrow,
Foretold one night of our Daddy’s death.

We thought ourselves clever to hide our mud-soiled undies under pile of dirty clothes.
I’m sure our mother knew that forbidden adventure
in ditch water had happened again.


Later
Much later,
after a Father’s death,
and the years left the farm behind,
the memory of that refuge tree
gathers me close in it’s sheltering arms.


Every time I glimpse a cottonwood
or glance at the fluff flowing in the air,
I silently wrap its memory around my body,
and hug the bark:
A soft pillow of comfort
in memories of 2 little summer girls,
burnt in death.