The path home is so unlike the path through the trees
and ferns, the intense voice of green calling up
all and every bit of lush and bloom. Up and
out for Spring’s few weeks of rising in her
The last of the trillium bent down to give
her final breath to earth till her next year.
While the poppies make a field of orange
and purple heads up to seek the sun
in it’s path across the northern sky.
I made words to stories of childhood amidst
the quiet of this place of Clearing and creating.
Feeling the spaciousness beneath forest wild
with the dappled blue of sky and the floor of
hungry life rising green for the carpet
Childhood didn’t know this place. I held her
hand as we walked the paths, sat together
in an arbor of green, inhaled the wonders
of how those days brought us to these days
We remembered what needed remembering.