Who Will Speak for the Cottonwoods?

A narrative poem by Rev. Hope Douglas Harle-Mould

for the prayer service of the Interfaith Climate Justice Coalition (ICJC)

to save waterfront trees and land from development

at the Outer Harbor, October 18, 2021

Dedicated to Jay Burney

Who will speak for the cottonwoods in this place?

The cottonwoods are speaking for themselves.

Are we listening?

Do we care enough to open our hearts

to their wise seventh-generation perspective,

to their verdant vibrancy as living things

that demand nothing of us

but to receive their gift

of renewing our souls?

These ancient cottonwoods are slated for death

in the name of profit-making development.

But this stand of cottonwoods is taking a stand,

speaking out for all creatures

of lakeside and land

who call this place home—

the snowy owls arriving here from the Arctic,

the 500 swallows born here in these branches

now returning to the Amazon rainforest—

this humble habitat

connecting us to compass points far.

This copse of cottonwoods is calling us,

who call ourselves homo sapiens,

“wise men, wise women,”

to create an alternate path—

that as government once zoned this lakeshore land

in the name of development

for the sake of customers paying currency,

government could change its short-mindedness

and re-zone it,

this time for parkland pleasure,

with gates open to all children of God:

to come and receive

the free priceless bequest

of wind and water, of shoreline and sky,

of the growing greenery and meek creatures

of Erie’s spirit.

Even yet, this copse of cottonwoods

is revealing to us a future

more beautiful than we’ve managed to imagine,

whispering to you and me to recall…

that every national park or state forest,

every wildlife refuge or parkland sanctuary

has been midwifed into being

by the dedication of the few,

coming together as mustard-seed small groups

of advocacy and action—

to stop more trees from being chain-sawed,

to halt more topsoil from being bulldozed,

to ban more concrete from paving over

the earth of Seneca devotion.

Who will speak for the cottonwoods in this place?

The cottonwoods are speaking for themselves.

Are we listening?

Do we care enough to open our hearts

to their Loud Leaves of enchantment,

their shushing wave-sounds in the wind?

Our great-grandchildren unborn

already hear their voices,  

impatiently awaiting the time

they can touch their hands

to these trunks,

and gaze out

upon these waters,

and sing with rejoicing

one song

in unison

with these cottonwoods—

whose voice

we today

finally

hear.