Despite the clearly marked signs,
my father carried a pinecone secreted in his camera bag
from the thicket of trees of Tuolomne Grove
home to rest in Kentucky Bluegrass.

A Sequoia doesn’t thrive in Kentucky’s 
humid summers. It longs for winter dark and deep.
My father will not live to see it 
grow tall enough to tower over him.

I imagine a Sequoia would be
lonely without its grove.
Buildings are no companion for trees.
Neither are men, tiny figures
beneath the notice of such a Colossus.

I’d rather think of the Sequoias gathered
in Yosemite, whispering and rustling
to one another while I walk around and 
through their trunks.

I am fleeting and insignificant 
against their lofty and enduring heights.