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
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