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.

Yes.

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

not knowing

and also,

knowing

who was speaking

and began

moving again.

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