The tree, it stretches up heavenward high,
emerging from the depths of ash and earth.
The dirt, the humus, dark as night-black sky
as if the hand of God calls forth my worth.
Behold my grace through vessel, see my love
in bark-covered-twisted-winter-dead tree.
Life perches here affirmed by thorn and dove,
terra firma to winter sky, now free.
The tree awaits what I await: the Spring.
I find the Stabat Mater here; her cry.
A Death transformed to life, first-fruit bearing,
One branch, finger-like calls me forth, to die.
“Here I will sit and rest awhile” in thee,
My Lord, I cry, who saved a wretch like me.
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