The River Wild

In the piney-woods,
the path is scattered with pine cones
and fallen branches,
ground soft and springy underfoot,
smell of canopy and trees,
song of the river
wild in winter flood.

The rough bark of Grandfather Cedar
tells the story of a thousand years
of standing in one place.
When you look up,
when you lay your hand
against his trunk,
when you listen,
you can feel and hear his message:
Endurance.


Look into this little pocket of forest,
draped in moss and old man's beard,
salal springing up everywhere,
ferns and fiddleheads,
small white winter berries,
 rosehips,
toadstools and wild morel,
every inch alive with myriad life forms,
an entire ecosystem can exist here,
in a patch
no bigger than 
your hand.


Listen to the silence,
alive with the forest's breathing,
and the secrets 
only the forest knows.
If you take the time,
this old tree
will share with you
his wisdom.


The river is wild in winter.
It expends its force
tumbling and crashing over rocks,
rushing the banks
and frothing white and foamy
through the canyon.

Sit a spell.
Just Be.
Breathe the river in,
breathe your worries out.


The word I'm looking for, here,
is reverence.