I stop my forest walk amid
a patch of grass where younger trees
have not yet grown but windfalls lay.
The fungi, bugs, and worms unbraid
the fiber, break the threads, that weave
the sunlit carbon into life.
From here I hear the stream I fish
in spring and where, in late July,
I pick the berries from the bank.
Beyond the stream, there is a field
where autumn’s yield of deer is full.
I stoop: My fingers digging dirt
divine the strength of all that came
before, that grew and lived and died,
and joined me in the sacred hoop.
I, too, I know, absorb the gift
bestowed by light and love and mud.
I bend a knee and feel the soil
beneath–so warm, so soft, so lush—
and gasp a prayer of thankful awe