Grandfathers Poem by Chris Ernest Nelson

One beat of the drum each year.
One pluck of the string in a century
For this song is carried by the dense fog
and its melody sweeps in with
the breath of the cold Pacific deep.
No man can hear the song embrace the giant forest
with its ancient throbbings and the crystal bells
of sunlight that swirl at the steady feet
of grandfathers
as old as the calendar itself.

The solemn white-capped mountains
applaud the spectacle below,
as the great stands of redwoods
their green arms embracing,
sway to the rhythm of the seasons,
bow only to the beat of the drum.
This is the music of their private dance.
Their tribe knows that which endures
the millennia
and stands guard over our dreams.