Walk up into the forest
keep right at the big bend.
Walk gingerly past the brambles,
gingerly alongside the culvert
to the creek
—fresh bear tracks in the mud.
Come, listen to the rippling, bubbling creek.
Its cool breath soothing your cheeks
teasing away time and unease.
Drop anxious thoughts into the murmuring
skipping down to the Sound.
Come, cross the small bridge onto the trail.
Wind your way up between ancient cedar
and fir. The creek pressing close
majestic root crowns upturned
from the mountain’s ribs, they rise
like stunned suns in silent prayer.
Their twisting rays home to mosses,
lichen, ferns, insects, saplings, and salal.
Come, pause, listen to the barely audible
like a robin listens for a worm. Suspend for a
moment your life between the varied thrush’
fluty trills. Their buzzy, morning whistles
drawn out, long and eerie, alternating tones,
stretching through the forest canopy
before slipping back into the mountain’s
quiet, inner stillness.
Come, pause, lay your eyes across
fir, spruce, hemlock, cedar, maple.
Their reaching trunks all verticals on an incline.
The tilted morning light dancing golden
green, dappled music on their limbs. Here,
from head to toes watch, one breath into the next.
Ferns unfurl elegant, long furry fingers
and huckleberry uncurl soft leaves
spilling last night’s shimmering rain.
Come, feel the swoosh of ravens’ wings
slicing through the resinous scent of
freshly cut cedar. Feel your weight
sink into soft, dark earth flexing under
your left foot, right foot receiving
no visible footprints here yet
light circular imprints
from last night’s rain.
Come, kneel beside,
scoop sparkling grace shimmering
over your face, allow its transparency to cleanse,
forgive yourself for having been away.
Leave here the load you cannot carry
upwards. Leave here the worried stories,
precious relics that rarely come true
but for the lens that freezes time.
Come, bring yourself back—just this.
Feel your heart beat
pulsing the rhythm of the forest,
the coastal mountains,
the folding mnemonic aeons.
Touch the years exposed, feel the rings,
the soft green needles, the crevassed bark,
the magenta blossoms beside old
giants’ charred remains.
Come. Pause. Catch your breath,
step back into yourself. Take a seat
next to the creek. Listen. Its undulating,
euphonious song shaping stone,
flushing roots and circling ferns,
smoothing out the wrinkles
etched into—come give away
—just this. The bubbling, trickling
its ever-changing inflections.
Allow yourself this
—rest for a while.
Gently let curiosity take you.
Tuck under squirrel overpass,
cross half-cedar-log bridge.
Here, where many creeks join,
the incline more gentle
the forest opens. Pause and listen.
A long, joyful, bubbling, melodious
warble folds back into silence
before a distant song
begins to rise and fall.
A call and response, a shared echoing
the joining of the creeks.
This is wren territory.
Here now, quench your thirst,
on your tongue catch rain drops
glistening limes that hang
from huckleberry leaves.
Lean in close.
Drink up a whole world
shimmering in each drop.
Savour in prayer.
This is our sanctuary,
this is Mother Earth
nudging us to stay awake.
For long, she has been offering
a living prayer.
©Cristina Viviani May 2021