A Poem I Wrote From The Branches Of A Cottonwood Tree

I want to share a poem I wrote about the wind, but since Reedsy requires at least 1,000 words to publish something, I am offering you the story of how the poem came to pass. If you are interested in my silly ramblings about the wind and trees and how much I love being outside in the place I live, you are welcome to continue reading. Otherwise, I will not be insulted if you skip to the poem at the end of this work.

Summer in my home is enchanting. The winters are cold and exhausting here- and seem to drag longer than their allotted season, at least for me. Winter can be inspiring, and I certainly see the pros and cons of every season, but mostly I feel like the cold months are there to remind us how great the warm months are. This year was a good water year, and everything was alive and thriving. The plants were richly green and the farmers worked their land without the worry of running out of water that is so common in the desert we have settled in. I had only recently healed from some emotional wounds that were, in retrospect, self-inflicted. In the wise and resonant words of Ryan O'Neal, "I've been less than half myself for more than half my life." and I was determined to make up for it.

So one sunny day I donned an undershirt and shorts (I had previously been partial to hoodies and my arms hadn't seen the sun in years) and set off on foot to just enjoy the free vitamin D and see what I could see. I had no particular destination in mind, I simply started walking.

Behind my house is an irrigation canal that spans for miles, providing water to the fields that surround our property. About a half mile from my house is a tall cottonwood tree- one of only a few trees near The Farm- with a sort of treehouse built into it. In reality, it is two wooden platforms built at different levels in the tree, resulting in a simple dwelling about 10 feet off the ground. It sounds less than awe-inspiring on paper, but to a kid, it's absolutely magical. My older sister and I discovered it shortly after we moved to The Farm and I've been making memories there ever since.

This one summer day, though, I wandered past the treehouse and was suddenly struck by a simple truth: I have no idea who built it.

I stopped in my tracks and turned back to regard the structure. It was old- that much was obvious. the wooden platforms were faded and had water damage so much that one had to be cautious when standing in the middle. The tree had grown over the 2-by-4's that held it together so much it looked almost comical. Whoever built it obviously cared enough to build it well, because it withstood the test of time with grace.

I made my way to it, taking the trail I had been traversing since I was old enough to traverse, and for the first time searched it for a name. Any marking or carving in the wood that would give me a clue. There was none.

I stepped back and looked at the structure in a different way. It was old. Whoever built it probably had kids and a family of their own. Did they think about the treehouse from time to time, or was it just a glimpse in their childhood, long forgotten? What were the circumstances? Was it built by a parent or older sibling for a younger person, or by a young person testing their skills one boring summer? I have neighbors, but they live almost two miles away and have been empty-nesters for decades. Did they build it in their youth? One of their kids? Some other person who nobody knows? Perhaps it was a lonely hermit who needed a place to stay or an alien race trying to mimic our human houses, the writer part of my mind daydreamed as I climbed up the post onto the lower platform. How many childhoods has this treehouse been a witness to? I wondered. I climbed to the higher platform.

Up there, I was hit by a wave of nostalgia. Many adventures had centered around this place. Once, my younger sister and I ran away from home and chose this as our refuge. We stayed until we were bored and sunburned, then returned home to face the wrath of Mom, only to face a hug and grilled cheese sandwiches instead. My older sister had her first kiss there, with the son of a family friend under a summer sky full of stars. She told me all about it when she got home. I once took a friend there and we just talked about life and why it was worth living. I went there to calm down, meditate, write, be alone. It was like a second home.

And I have no idea who built it. Whoever did has long left this place, but here the treehouse stood, like a relic from the museum of someone else's childhood. I lay down on the platform and looked up at the sky through the lime green leaves. A low wind was making the leaves tremble and almost sing. I closed my eyes and listened to the song of summer. The wind would know. She was there. I sighed. The wind witnesses all. If only she could speak.

I stayed there for a long time, almost falling asleep, letting my arms get baked to a golden brown in the sun. Then I got up, got the notebook and pen out of my pocket, took a deep breath of fresh air and wrote this poem. I hope you enjoy.

A Poem I Wrote From The Branches Of A Cottonwood Tree

by Raye McLaughlin

A seed is planted

a tree grows

all the while,

the wind blows

A mountain of old

is washed to the sea

the salted breeze continues,

unchangingly

We are born

we live and die

yet no time passes

to the wind and sky

At some point

we may forget the breeze

but she still tumbles, restless,

through the trees

Years away,

the wind touches my face

then goes on to engulf you

in her timeless embrace

Dancing around your arms

and whisping through your hair

I'm jealous of the wind

because I wish I was there

She's always in our lungs

She's always at our back

Can never be relied on

yet is a constant, a fact

We revel in her beauty

We sing with her spirit

A force of power

yet we do not fear it

We breathe with the wind

We change as she changes

while all the world

she rearranges

Our seed is planted

our tree grows

all the while,

the wind blows

Our mountain of old

is washed to the sea

The restless breeze continues

unchangingly