Shoes set aside so my feet

can settle on the earth,

my mind slowly loosens its grip

on the edge of the forest—the noisy crowds

of constant motion, demanded results,

and frantic emotions.

 

Here—

alone.

Separated from familiar—home—

the fearful dreams that drove my heart.

 

Here—

small.

Surrounded by wooden bodies

I feel out of place—too much space.

 

And yet, a whisper—this is my place.

This world of oak and earth

calls forth my nature—sight is life.

An invitation to peel back bark layers,

actions and words I named myself,

“Unfurl the fingers of your soul.”

 

Here—

leaves collect dancing rays of sun,

a shower of golden coins.

Insects and birds sing out their praise,

a cathedral of eyes and wings—

healing.

 

Bare feet—naked skin remembering its origin—

pure, rich, house of life.

My face in the breeze,

Caught in the kiss of delight,

 

Here,

I am.

Alone but not alone.

 

The trees never rush—

muscled branches stretch in joy

for sunbathing is abundant,

and roots know the faithfulness of rain.

 

This is home—

to stop and plow deep roots

and leave my running shoes behind,

to walk slow with wonder eyes,

and breathe the praise of trees.

One thought on “Trees Are Sight

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