I enter the woods at a near-run
Each footstep pounding out loss
Frustration
Heartache
Despair
Anger
Giving it the Mother, who can bear it.
And She saves me.
With the trickle of stream running again where it hasn’t all summer
The heart-shaped rock, the dragonfly wing, the tiny wild daisies growing anyway.
Whose idea was it to fling such beauty everywhere?
To tuck wild mushrooms into crevices
Top rocks with plush bits of moss
Layer bark with soft scales of lichen?
The abundance slows my breathing
My footsteps lose their insistence,
Becoming reverent instead.
When I emerge I’ve left it all behind,
I can breathe,
I’ve returned to something more like what I’m meant to be.
Wild.
That trickle of steam that wants to flow,
And does,
Brings with it hope for resurrection.
Hers.
Mine.
Ours.
Sometimes I reach out and touch the trees just to feel how solid they stand, how rooted and certain.
And still I cannot deny the giants toppled this year.
The one question you can never ask the woods is, “Why?”
And while we’re on the topic of things to avoid:
You can step over the roots or trip on them,
You can curse them or thank them,
Your choice.