COTTONWOOD

by Jock Jacober

A single cottonwood is left standing

At the edge of the pasture by the ditch.

A meadow lark sounds his song from hiding.

His, a call to mate repeated and rich.

The tree, leaves emerging in the early spring

Begins its time of year above the ground,

Lead by Persephone the season fling

No longer in the shadow deep bound.

The rough bark scarred up to shoulder high

Has been the rubbing place of many cattle

My scars presage my own death, I sigh

In the depths of soil, I end my battle.

How like this tree I will die, tumble down,

I have no need to live forever above ground.