Seeking the quiet that persistence has, 

I might dig in forests rather than seas 

Had I the choice between existence as 

A blade of seagrass or a redwood tree. 

Yet seagrass whispers louder every day, 

Of the cold current, of the ocean’s weight, 

Of the phantom light of blue-filtered rays, 

Of the ceiling shadows of fish and freight. 

Better still, seagrass offers subtlety: 

Water’s haze cloaks meadows with the delight 

Of distortion and ambiguity 

By twisting away intrusions of light. 

It promises I would not grow tired, 

Would not grow rigid, would not have to stand, 

Would not have to stretch my body skyward 

To live and live and live and live on land. 

Instead I could lie close to the seafloor, 

Sprawled with abandon in my own seabed; 

Trees stand the same after wind as before, 

While I could curl with the currents instead. 

But blades of seagrass taste little compared 

To redwood trees. Tree bark’s rigidity 

Is more than age, and trees are not impaired 

By time and weather-wrought solidity. 

And so I would best be a redwood tree, 

And, had you the same choice, by strange chances, 

You might grow as a redwood beside me, 

So that I could hold you with my branches.