grandmother of this grove
I follow turkey feathers and deer scat to your doorstep,
a wall of weeping tendrils quietly crying
somber celebration of Spring.
Snows have vanished, revealing secrets
left by raptors roosting in your tangled arms
twiggy chambers criss-crossing
dissecting spaces warm and inviting.
Thimbles of fur scattered about
and the remains of feathery feasts
Last Year’s cicada skin somehow preserved
under your permanent security.
I cautiously invade your sacred circle
as intruder asking permission to enter,
to run hands over smooth bark,
to contemplate lazy streams of slow-moving sap.
I place a finger
gently collecting a single drop of your golden juice
dabbing on wrists a sticky forest perfume.
Soft spiked arms hug my shoulders
a green shawl draped heavy across my chest.
I’ve waited for this embrace.
You give me everything by caring not,
Nature’s apathy my deep comfort.
With the wind you respond
infinite hands reaching to the sky:
“Stand up, dear one, and love with all your heart.”
– 16 March 2015