Calling America Home
An Eastern Cottonwood grows back of our house—Eighty feet high, canopy nearly as wide—Very soft wood, cracks without warning,But regal in the spring when the leaves fan out.
Squirrels nest in trees close by but not in it.They cross it like a bridge, or thoroughfare,Or an island they can catch on the way home.They don’t trust it, as if they somehow knew.
Somehow, they know they shouldn’t call it home—Too soft or too wide or too tall … ominous? A home wants more than towering grandeur:A home should be standing when storms have passed.
An Eastern Cottonwood grows back of our house—Eighty feet high, canopy nearly as wide—Very soft wood, cracks without warning,But regal in the spring when the leaves fan out.
Squirrels nest in trees close by but not in it.They cross it like a bridge, or thoroughfare,Or an island they can catch on the way home.They don’t trust it, as if they somehow knew.
Somehow, they know they shouldn’t call it home—Too soft or too wide or too tall … ominous? A home wants more than towering grandeur:A home should be standing when storms have passed.