Hiking Along the Quilcene River in Washington

From the center of an old rotted stump,

two pines were stretching their

slender bodies upward.

Daughters, probably,

of this dying Mother tree

turning pine cones into hemlocks in her bosom.

The Mystery–

how loud the fall of a giant must be

when nobody is around to hear it.

Her core cracking on impact,

bark flying in every direction—

like the tendrils of a dandelion

taking flight on the breath of a wish.

In silence, she withered

beneath the snow and rainfall–

the years dissolved her into mulch.

Now, a scattered line of foxglove and fireweed

mark her mossy grave dappled with sunlight.

The Courage you possess

to grow in the shadows

despite everything crashing to the ground around you.

Bone-thin and intrepid, you shake

among the towering Sitka and Cedar

taunting you with the sways and cracks

of their storm dance.

Struck with fear and longing

of what you might become—

of how far you might fall.

Still,

you mark the path with stones,

find the sun in the canopy overhead,

and make yourself a birthing place

for hope—

for wild—

for more—

and for the Wonder of what you’ll leave behind.

Two spindly and restless branches

dancing and twisting in the light

between the wildflowers and the stars—

unafraid of what they will become,

unmoved by the thought of falling.

Hopeful, wild, and always wanting more.