Myrtle Grove

A slippery lot,

leaves beneath the tree knots,

so I try not to slide down the hill.

Thick is the floor,

with nature’s galore,

so prolific is this forest duff,

but no matter how many,

room for more penny-colored leaves.

I wave my hands through blue, greenish-grey moss,

of fine dangling tree reams of time and loss,

a creaking warily sound, a snap may abound,

if the wind picks up in the afternoon.

Dark and clean is the scene,

everywhere in between under the canopy

in this pleasantly covered,

once temple moor made hollow rune.

Cleanse my worldly cares,

let go of despair,

this place is where I can just be,

for how else to explain,

the release of my pain,

in this shelter from trauma and care.

My journey was long,

here I belong,

as I look at the river through the trees,

seeing birds in the air, showing little care,

as they ride gusty winds

through embracing air pockets

in the sky above me.

This ground has been protected

from most of the evils, I fled,

naïve it is not, as all deep time is fraught.

It too has seen dreams come to naught.

Its first people forced to move

after a long, spirit-filled, and symbiotic stay,

and knowing its part in the era,

it still mourns in its way.

It, too, knows my ancestor’s loss and pain

and it shall wash with the rain

only some of our joined hurt, anger,

and remorse away. Listen, it is calling,

all nature is falling

in rhythm like these heavy,

slow dripping, raindrop-ridden leaves.

So infrequently these days,

I don’t seem to hear anything

beyond my next fear,

if only I would, I might get back some

of my energy and genuine desire for health gains.

I breathe deeply and exhale any need for constant grit,

tense my muscles and release buried stress—

hoping once again my mind will finally return fit.

I do not need to visualize a relaxing place to be,

for wholeness is the essence of this grove of old trees

full of silence, serenity, and the ability to bless.