when the sky is so close you could touch it
and the wind kisses soft at your skin
little whispers that say, "you've come home now
to a wild that's always within..."
when the blue ceiling beckons you upward
while white cotton candy drifts on and on
the rocks under your feet crunch and clap as you go and the trees paint the spines of the mother's great edges...
and there's snow and there's mud and there's dirt and there's grass and there's now and there's there and there's here but no past...no future and nothing to be!
finally! there are no layers left to shed, or if there are they're just bark on the birch....
and the sap is just sticking there underneath waiting to spring forth into raw, pure, unadulterated sweetness
as sticky fingers grasp useless quarters and quarters of gold...
as wind whips through wild hair and laughter echos deep into canyons!
only for the mother bear to hear...far away...and she smiles to herself that finally you understand the power and strength of your being.
and there you are: feeling it all.
THIS is what the poets speak of.
this freedom.
not even the rumbling plane can bring you down. (where is it flying, anyway? we're in quarantine)
nor the blazed black trunks...
for already the forrest comes back and so do you
you come back here. home. truth.
resilience seems like such a dull word, and so does belonging.
how long can one bask in this holiness?
