The Bristlecone

I am alone, barely standing,
on this cold
and wintry mountainside.

My comrades,
they are mostly gone now.
Their skeletons scattered,
bleached white, disintegrating
on the frozen ground.
My life is short now,
my future dim.
Can I withstand
another year
of winters such as this?

Long ago,
when I was just a sprout,
a tiny seedling,
I was slow to grow,
but resilient.
My cones were full of seeds.
I was just one of a few,
spaced wide apart,
an open forest on the heights.
Life was harsh
at ten-thousand feet
or more,
but we thrived
from one year to another.

Bears came to visit,
nuthatches and squirrels, too.
I heard the cry of eagles.
Years passed, then centuries,
some were good, some bad.
Rain was sometimes scarce,
the snow pack thin.
I couldn't grow much,
but I built a narrow ring.
Humans came.
They picked my purple cones,
gathered up my needles,
stole bits of me for souvenirs.
They probed my heart
for specimens to study in the lab.

For centuries,
we had the mountain to ourselves.
We survived,
but now I am alone,
having outlived all the others.
My trunk is twisted,
there's very little green.
My needles are small and weak.
My cones, what there are of them
are scattered in the wind.
These old roots cannot
hold me upright for much longer.
Soon my sun bleached carcass
will lie upon the frozen ground.

But, my energy,
my nutrients, will feed the soil.
Someday, some tiny part of me
will become a seedling,
a sprig of green
and I will survive again
to survey my world
from this lofty mountain-side.

Feel not sorry for me
or kick my bleached bones aside.
I am not a beauty;
a Sequoia or a Redwood,
but I am unique, resilient,
I am a hardy Bristlecone.

Vi
©May 30, 2005