The Highest Tree in the World

I can sense something mysterious this morning

So, I look outside;

Still snowing. Wonderful.

Still snowing

So the edges of the dogs footprints are softened;

Soft edges

Like loving someone different.

Softened edges,

Like filling every tree branch

And wire on my fence

With white silence.

What does that silence feel like this morning?

There are the quiet questions.

And some are easier to answer than others,

Because when I go outside to collect kindling for fire

I hear them chirping

Bouncing from fence to old wagon wheel to budding bush.

Some quiet questions are easy to answer,

Not all.

Not, “how many grains of sand are in those dunes?”

“More than two!” my father would say.

But, no! Really! How many?

There is a number. Not an estimate.

An exact number. What is it?

The emerging blue sky cranes my neck upward.

Still snowing.

I can see the flakes falling, against the brown sand cliff above,

And above that, a single tree

Disturbing the perfect line

Between the cliff and the sky.

The highest tree.

What is the highest tree in the world?

Not the highest one in my view,

But the highest of all?

Not an estimate, or a species, or a location.

The exact tree.

How much snow does it hold this morning?

Are its edges softened with silence

into the tundra below?

What is its personality, its self image,

Is there an alter? Does anyone know?

And where is it for god’s sake?

But now my fire is dying.

And I need to go out with the birds for wood,

And like all others,

This quiet question is not answered

Because it is forgotten.