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,
it is living,
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