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.