Rooted In Stone


old am I.
Seated up high,
high on this cliff.
I’ve seen much,
much more than you know.
Secrets I hold, secrets to keep.

Beaten and torn,
ravaged by time,
my body does show,
wounds of long life.
Of life and death,
my soul does know,
for year after year,
parts of me die, yet other parts grow.
Fire and Ice, have left their mark,
yet sun and rain, have given me life.

Friends I have known, though few they have been:
The eagles fly by, or nest below.
Newborns each year, learn to fly.
Once before, an Indian boy,
would sit alone, carving his stone.
I’ve watched the elk rut, and lions on hunt.
Yet few have seen, few even know,
that I am up here, rooted in stone.

Far below,
my brother fell.
To root in the earth,
instead of stone.
Much taller is he,
but stronger am I.
Twins by birth, we grew.
He grew much faster, faster than I.
But he is now gone, his skeleton left.
I will live on, just as I have.
Atop this great cliff,
Stout and stiff.

On grassy knoll,
The mighty oak grows,
strong and proud,
his size is immense.
But his life is still short,
much shorter than mine.

At river’s edge,
the maple may grow,
elegant and light,
she’s pleasing in sight.
Color and grace, beauty in full.
Though her life is still short,
much shorter than mine.
I’ve seen them come,
I’ve seen them go,
for I grow slow, slower than slow.

I’ll tell you one secret,
only just one:
of how it can be,
how one so small
mountains may move.
It takes but time,
persistence and time.
Long ago, my seed fell here.
In this small crack, a crack in stone.
Here my roots grew, here they clung.
To this stone, my roots did hold.
And through this stone, my roots have spread.
Bit by bit, this mountain has moved,
pushed by roots, so small and soft.
It takes but time,
persistence and time.

Few have known, few have seen,
this very old soul, rooted in stone.
Until one day,
a rugged young man,
least young to me,
Strong and weary,
did climb my cliff.
To sit nearby,
and study my life.
He looked for my soul,
then he did smile.
Few before, could see this soul.
None saw my story, my story of life,
but this man could see, could see my soul.
His grip was strong,
yet his touch was light.
Wisdom and care,
guided his hands,
as he gathered my roots,
encased in stone.
He carried me down,
down this mountain,
to a town and a home,
a home full of life, children and wife.
There he waited,
patiently waited,
for me to grow, and grow I did.
When I was strong,
another man came,
less rugged, yet joyful and wise.
An Artisan, this man searched inside.
Inside my soul, he saw what he could.
Shaping my crown,
with vision and care,
to highlight the best,
the best of a life lived long in stone.

From there I moved on,
my roots now in clay that is fired and strong.
I have a new place, a place of honor.
Some people come, peering at me.
Admiring my form, searching my soul.

Time to time,
on special occasion,
I sit on a stand,
Shown in great glory,
for many to see.
Honor and reverence,
this soul does feel.
For many now look,
who could not before.

Friends I have now,
more friends than before.
Some for my looks,
a few for my soul.
Some do listen,
some will not,
for the secrets I keep,
the secrets I hold.
Though many may look,
still few can see,
this very old soul.
The soul of a tree.

Do I miss, you may ask,
my life on a cliff, the view I once had?
One thing I know, one thing to share:
Be content, for there lies peace,
peace to make, a life complete.
Friends may come,
friends will go,
Some shallow, some less so.
Be friend to all,
then you will see,
then you will know,
this secret, this secret of mine.

One thousand Years,
long years on a cliff.
I’ve seen many things,
many changes I’ve felt.
I’ve seen Nations come, I’ve seen them go.
Yet as they pass by, new friends I have made.
A family I have,
I am now loved,
loved by many,
who come to see,
to see an old soul.
My soul has not changed, only my seat.
Now I sit here, peaceful and calm,
this place of honor, to call my home.
Here’s to one thousand,
one thousand more,
years of this life,
The life of a tree.

Once shaped by nature,
both cruel and harsh.
Now shaped by hands,
hands of an artist.
Long have I lived,
and longer I’ll live.
Passed along, from one life to next,
by more than one man,
more than one artist.
A legacy I’ll leave,
of patience and time.
Once rooted in stone,
now rooted in culture.
teaching of life,
long lasting life.
Come and see,
come to know,
this soul I’ve been given,
The soul of a tree.


Fuji15 014


Characters in this poem include: Steve Varland, Michael Hagedorn and no tree in particular. At least, I used them as inspiration. Hopefully they don’t mind… lol.

Thanks for reading.


© Dan Wiederrecht 2014

7 thoughts on “Rooted In Stone

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