On the Necessity of Genuflection

There was a mighty Ironwood
That stood on Windburn Hill.
Its thousand roots were like a snare
Of iron chain and dead man’s hair
That gripped to death the rocks. The air
Around its crown was still.

There was an ancient Ironwood
That stood and would not sing.
Its knotted limbs were strong and proud.
Its leaves were like a lifeless cloud
Whose white silence is far too loud
To hear the slightest thing.

There was a wicked Ironwood.
It scorned the other trees:
The maple in her scarlet sleep,
The oak in muscles covered deep,
The lindens who sweet secrets keep.
He snubbed them round his knees.

The Ironwood chuckled in his heart
And twisted-smiling said
“I am the lord of sky and sea!
A very god of growing tree!
Let Origyen bow to me,
That I may spare his head!”

The echoes rose from Windburn woods
Wound round with haughty words.
The flying winds were clear and cool.
The cold was innocent and cruel.
The blue was of a tidal pool.
And something heard, and stirred.

A little cloud was drifting,
Before the sun arose,
Up from the western border lakes,
From wind that sun and water makes.
But Ironwood no notice takes,
His eyes are lightly closed.

The cotton clouds were gathering,
Before the sun spoke noon,
Across the west horizon line,
Across the river’s turning brine,
Above the waters strong as wine
Where sounds the singing loon.

The mountain clouds were swelling.
The sun no more displayed.
The shadow washed up Windburn height.
The dust smelled frozen, and the light
Turned grey. The Ironwood flexed his might,
And he was not afraid.

The wind came up the lakeshore.
The wind came through the wood.
Its voice was like a tidal wave.
Its touch was chilly as the grave.
Its song was deep and sad and brave.
Its heart was only good.

The lindens bowed down hastily.
The maple stirred in dreams.
The oak wrestled and groaned, as does
One piling weight on weight because
He can. The Ironwood sniffed, “This buzz:
Some bumblebee, it seems.”

The wind whipped up, and Setirov
Was standing on its peak.
The clouds were torn chaotically.
The grass was tossing like the sea.
The whirlwind roared more rapidly
As its lord moved to speak.

“Hail, Ironwood,” said Setirov.
“From higher than you can see,
Above where skies have no more blue,
Where earth is almost lost to view,
Have I bowed down to speak with you.
Will you bow back to me?”

“The Ironwood,” it snorted back,
“Never, to none, will bow.
The gods, indeed, shall bow to me:
I am the world’s most perfect tree!
But chide me not, thou bumblebee,
Get gone your winding now!”

“To bow to friends in greeting
Is only courtesy,”
Said Setirov. The wind increased.
“Even the lowest crawling beast
Will nod when met. Do that at least
And I will let you be.”

“What mean the threats of peevish bees
To one as great as I?”
The Ironwood scoffed. “My wood is hard.
My secret thoughts I keep and guard.
No wind my limbs has ever marred.
You are welcome to try!”

“The Old Thin One,” growled Setirov,
And not a breeze dared stir,
“In ages past did boast thusly,
And steel, not iron, was his body.
So. If you will not bow with me,
Then you will dance with Her.”

And if the Ironwood made reply
It was lost in the shriek
Of wind released in all its wrath,
Of funnel cloud’s destructive path,
Of Setirov’s most dreadful laugh
On the tornado’s peak.

And if the tree repented then
It was too late. The sound,
The flash of arrow taking wing.
The thunderous hum of taut bowstring.
The light of holy lightening:
He fell, split, to the ground.

Now ironwoods on Windburn Hill
Do not grow half so high
As oaks with shoulders broad and deep,
As lindens keeping bees like sheep,
As maples who in autumn sleep
Send praises to the sky.

Now on the heights of thunderheads,
Where loud winds cry and crowd,
Setirov is the Lord of Storm,
And Kataranya’s Heart is Warm.
So when you see a storm take form
Be wise, and not too proud.