Mountain Resurrection

People are arriving for the weekend—

the white noise of the rushing cars

Rubber against the blacktop

Deafening as they stream up the mountain;

at times drowning out the language of the trees.

 

The boughs whisper secrets to one another

as they rock in the wind.

I am still.

The birds come in the stillness,

their trill an invitation

to rest a while.

 

Dried leaves dance along the parking space,

rubbing their edges along its roughness;

is this now part of the erosion process?

 

As I write,

 ten or so little gnats spin

around my pen and fingers.

Their bodies like almonds in shape and color,

yet they are so minute

Do they inspire my words?

Influence each syllable?

 

Crows cawing as the sun sets

calling in the flock,

circling as they gather

in the wood for ritual.

I can sense the ancient spirits gathering too.

 

A woodpecker above pelts me with

bark pieces as he excavates for supper—

I find myself in tears for unknown reasons;

my dog leaning against my thigh

as an affectionate gesture acknowledging

the sacredness of the moment.

 

The moment is all that matters.

The forest floor lain in an altar cloth

of pine needles and cones—

the entire clearing a church,

a cathedral;

it is living,

breathing.

 

I am more alive now

than I have been in a long time,

I wonder how I died?

When I died?

 

I can only be thankful for the heat of the desert

driving me up the mountain for cooler temperatures

I am resuscitated.

I am grateful.

2016 copyright by Katie Pifer http://www.witchpetals.wordpress.com

T78 INT 216

T78 INT 216

 

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