In these woods
where I am small, I watch breath rise and fall
in these pines of a hundred years or more
from pine cones, skyward moving slow.
I watch rain running down craggy bark,
soaking softly the moss and flowers below.
In the summer sun of heat, I lose myself complete
in the fragrant warmth of pinewood air.
The moss - yellow, green
in waves, it hangs wispy from the trees
Here where evening brings the birds and breezes quivering,
the wind shakes the forest trees, deep and echoing
the ravens woods speak to thee.