And I stopped,
heart hammering from exertion
snow shoes resting in deep wells of powder
wind gust rustling the ample boughs
of a Hemlock nearby —
accumulations releasing in a mellifluous whoosh.
And I heard, Are you with us?
No, I realized.
You are still at the meeting.
Why? Are you not moved by what is here?
Silent woods not so quiet;
deep winter smell of frozen earth
and cold pines;
sun’s last rays on the trail;
waxing gibbous moon growing brighter in a darkening sky;
Woodpecker squealing, then drilling;
Nuthatch’s nasal squawk from somewhere unseen.
We only ask that when you’re with us, you’re with us.
Yes, I said, meaning it
who was speaking
But my stubborn mind returned
to the meeting.
This time —
I caught myself.
I had a brief image then
of Grandmother Tree —
Sentinel for the land
shaking her head at my foolishness.
I have much to learn from these woods!
©2015, Jennifer A. Comeau