From the tips of its branches to the deepest, outermost extent of its roots, the cedar that planted itself within a few feet of our front window is as wild as a tree growing in an inaccessible canyon. This is something the sky knows and is always eager to tell. Nor is this truth questioned by squirrels, birds, insects, and worms, all of which are wild and wise in their own turn. Wind, rain, snow — these too rejoice in her as they cross the valley on their way to the bright eastern summits, sometimes rushing, other times lingering, but always, always, with tender, loving, arousing caresses. And am I not more alive when I am in her presence? Am I not blessed? Am I not a part of her heaven?
May 28, 2020. Evening. Finished John Muir’s nature writings May 26, 2020.
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces