In the pines, I found my still, beating heart Echoing the creaking canopy, and the rugged sound of bark beneath my fingers. My heart grew into the Mother like mossy cover on fallen trunks, Oh our Lost Brothers, turning into dirt, recycled. Yet no one mourns. No one plays a dirge. No procession comes through, singing celebrations of life, just the hallowed sound of the wind. But perhaps the subtle mist here is the visible form of delicate fairy tears longing for the spirit, for oneness to be reborn. And perhaps the silence I hear is contentment incarnate, no hustle needed, but to stand rooted. and to listen and consider oneself entrenched and included in the ways of the forest, Is to step lightly to tilt your head in the direction of wonder and listen to that child that speaks softly from your heart.