White Pine

 
I climb high in the branches today.  
A squirrel registers his complaint,  
from a socially safe distance.  
Cloud-wisps echo the curve  
of soft needles that tickle my face  
like mother’s hair.  
I am cradled in the sunshine,  
cheek against the coolness of tree skin.  
 
The wind sounds different in the top of a pine -  
More intimate, like breath through lips.  
I am one with the treetop dwellers as they  
chatter and hop  
branch to twig,  
And I sit and  
simply  
listen.  
 
I’ve always wondered, do my prayers count  
if they have no words,  
if they don’t start with “Dear God” or end with “Amen”?  
Scattered anxious images,  
fleeting puffs of gratitude,  
floating auras of beloved souls  
lifted up to the divine who knows  
better than I  
what they need…  
 
With my back against the trunk, I close my eyes and  
feel the movement of the earth  
 
I am falling  
into grace