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Stability 
I love the tree for its steadfastness. 
Alone in rain it sends its roots 
into familiar soil. It stands, 
which is not to say it waits. It lives 
through the inquisition that is summer 
and the departures of fall. 
It wears with grace 
the baldness of winter, 
and sings to itself in spring. 
It stands. It opens leafy pages 
to the coming year. 
And green is the prayer and here 
is where it lives. By choice or chance- 
it seems to matter not- 
its happiness is now, 
withholding nothing for a better day. 
I love the monk for that one vow he takes. 
To save that bit of land by taking not one step 
beyond his gate. To tend the garden 
he has fallen from. 
To open hands to earth and sky. 
To stand. 
Mary Mercier 
Poet's Statement 
For much of my life I have been fascinated by the idea of becoming a monk.
Not 
the reality of becoming a monk, just the idea. It's a romantic notion not
unlike run- 
ning off to sea, although with the opposite effect. For among the vows that
some 
monks take is a vow of "stability," which is a promise to live
out one's entire life in 
one place. I have never been very good at that, but I ferociously admire
those who 
are. Like monks. Like cottonwoods.... 
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