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.