What Matters

It rose high enough
to float the clouds,
this fountain of leaves,
this cottonwood tree
alone in the field’s center.
A shade on hot days, a sundial
at noon, a landmark in any weather,
its roots dug for moisture,
it stunted the corn under it,
its trunk shoved machines aside.
It owned its ground by roothold,
dominated the field. My father
sawed it down, soaked the stump
with kerosene and burned it
even to the roots. Now furrows
run straight, make a slight hump
over the tree’s grave, give the corn
its sky without shade. Meadowlarks
and bobolinks did not mourn
where they nested in meadow grass.
My father fitted the new pattern
to his work, only the passing birds
if they stopped would have to perch
on air and who knows what matters
to them, if they grieved or not.