THE MONTEREY CYPRESS
The rocks and sands of Monterey— They Nourished me Beside the sea. My age? It matters not— It was enough to batter me a bit; I’ve got My own credentials of what’s what. The way my flattened trunk is worn Shows well enough I was not born Into this planet yesterday; whoever will Can count my rings the day I fall—until That time, the secret I have kept Shall sleep as it has slept.
Had fate dealt otherwise, I might have been Bestowed in safety with my kin To landward there, a half-mile in— Most orthodox and prim In trunk and limb. For such an orthodoxy, bah, who’d give Two grains of sand—they do not live! They’ve nothing to combat. I get The first-hand give-and-take; the wet, Flung spray, the savage shoulder-drive Of unspent blasts—on these I thrive.
And then I watch—for me The sweep of sea, Unbroken, beautiful. I get the first Of everything. I see the burst Of evening clouds unrolled Upon a palpitating field of gold. Shot through with fiery javelins that dart Up from the sun’s red heart. So passes out my day. My night Is moon and mist and light Of stars—I keep The sweep Of sky and sea— Which somehow seems all made for me.