The woods never yawned
at the end of my stories
The streams never laughed
when I stuttered in haste
The mountains stood firm
when I lost my last footing
The sky understanding
in joy or disgrace

These natural things
forever behold me
Forgiving my weakness
rewarding my nerve
Their arms reaching out
through each change of the season
Pulling me onward
— my voice undeterred

(The New Room: March, 2025)