Great-Grandmother Cedar
By David Mampel
I lean against a
two-hundred-year-old
cedar trunk,
wide as a cathedral door,
taller than Solomon's temple.
Rain drips
over unpolished bark,
morning light
buffs out a shine
of unassuming wood,
green moss badges,
golden sap sequins—
a noble robe befitting
her unrelenting virtue.
Four people
could not embrace
her majesty's circumference,
but I slowly open my arms,
sniff clean intoxication,
press my ear against rough stillness
and hear her voice whisper
to the depths of my softer belly:
"Take off your shoes.
Hold me like a lost child.
Stay until you hear your heartbeat
in mine, in the thousand
buried roots beneath us.
"When you close your eyes,
pray for strong patience
to fuse within you
like the silent circles of my dark rings.
You can come to me again.
—Now go."
I went.
And I made it to the top
of Lake 22 reflecting Mount Pilchuck,
the royal blue sun,
and yellow dragonflies darting
across clear, contemplative water.
Author Bio: David Mampel is a writer, poet and former minister. His work has appeared in Copperfield Review Quarterly, The Aurora Journal, The Remington Review and several other publications. His short story, "Green Man" has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Cirque Magazine. He lives in Seattle and is currently working on his debut novel, “The Sound of Alchemy.” Find his work here.