by Susan W. Golder
Spoons and cups clatter.
Conversations brew.
Clans sip and gab in a communal chant to the awakening day.
I steal away.
Measuring my steps until voices fade,
I go to the place that beckons me
to be still …
to be silent.
I land, as I mostly do, under the canopy of a mighty pine.
I watch its needles fly and float in silent homage to the dawn.
I feel its trunk, solid and strong at my back.
My feet settle onto its tangled and ancient roots.
I am still. I am silent.
Here, with the mighty pine, I am one.
Spoons and cups clatter.
Conversations brew.
Clans sip and gab in a communal chant to the awakening day.
I steal away.
Measuring my steps until voices fade,
I go to the place that beckons me
to be still …
to be silent.
I land, as I mostly do, under the canopy of a mighty pine.
I watch its needles fly and float in silent homage to the dawn.
I feel its trunk, solid and strong at my back.
My feet settle onto its tangled and ancient roots.
I am still. I am silent.
Here, with the mighty pine, I am one.