The circle is wide at the bottom.
The ground is covered with moist soil,
Branches and dried needles and leaves.
The trees reach upward,
Rising high.
Their trunks are strong and protective,
Thick and textured.
They have weathered many storms.
And yet, there are multiple
Crooked highways in the trees,
All leading up,
Toward the sky,
Toward the light.
Green branches everywhere,
Reaching out to touch their neighbors,
Spreading nutrients and love,
And protecting those at
The bottom of the circle.
Higher, higher we rise,
To the light,
To the fresh air,
To the heavens.
How high can we go?
Higher still
Surrounded by our neighbors,
Our sisters and brothers
Who buffer us from the storms,
Until we reach the clouds.
Our strong trunks protect us,
And hold us firm
Against the storms.
While the cracks in the highway
Leading up,
Allow some messages from our neighbors
To travel through,
To send wisdom and love.
At the apex,
A circle of blue sky
With white clouds above
Like the dome of the ancient cathedrals
Where one can sense
Michelangelo’s Adam
Touching the hand of God.
A Year at Stanford 