Writing
I practiced what I call close hiking today.
The equivalent of close reading a text.
I go slow. I plant my feet and study the ground.
I observe the flora and the careless whispers of wind.
I get really impressed with tree rings and bowled over by bark.
I smell the herbaceous air, laden with growth and with decay.
It lands somewhere in my nose like hot black pepper
in a soup pot of cedar mud. I cannot breathe it in deep enough.
I lift my head taller for leaf blessings from overhanging boughs.
I run my fingers through waxy stalk and glossy frond,
noting what's soft as velvet and what's firm like leather.
I wait while the butterfly drinks, not wanting to disturb her sweet meal.
It's all a study in reciprocal aliveness.
The most sacred thing I do is to remember
I am interconnected to allthis beauty and all of this life.