Trees are like wooden tomes,
volumes of the history of Earth
encapsulated,
ringlets, snapshots,
centuries in lines
unintelligible, hidden,
concealed under bark
upon layers and layers.
As I walk through the forest
of trees so tall they must surely be
older than the soils from whence they’ve sprung,
I notice only movements
out of order with the vast
and perfect stillness hugging everything,
and of whose tender Song
I am a part,
in my breathing, in my ways,
rising from depths only to mount
with the illusion of importance
vested in my eyes,
but I was once a softer sapling,
sprouting out like a foolish spear,
foolhardy, eccentric,
unimportantly important,
though not in the wise I see.
For I am like the trees
in that I, too, am more ancient than stone;
I, too, derive my heritage
from the suffocated remains
of resilient ancestors
who gave up their lives
in exchange for a Soul,
the gem of the believing,
jewel of the renunciating,
fruit of all endeavours
worth our Time.
I bear this.
It is in me
as the collected rage and Sorrow of a thousand storms
is with the body of the ocean;
as the cry of a gull at its shores
echoes the crack of the Eternity
who birthed the Stars.
What do we know? more ignorant
than the dust gathered, scattered by winds
with the ruthlessness of Mountains,
yet their ancient calm.
Who is immortal? only
tangibly so is it difficult
to recognize my Father
in the grass,
my Mother rising up
in the waves that shall crush me,
releasing me from bondage
as a spruce hewn
off by lightning.
10/12/2016
Vancouver