The first of the green
like caught rain drops
a light Spring rain frozen in time.
Leaves, tiny, fresh unfolding
steady in their light green hue
move like raindrops.
The old trees reach and hold them,
the rhododendrons of the understory,
green through the winter
catch droplets, blanketing the rain
bouncing upward after it hits the earth.
Tiny minnows skim unexpectedly
in a pool halfway down the rocky
stream's fall beneath the hill.
Fallen tree trunks, bare
of bark, browned as earth amidst
last year's leaves, they've known
the heavy dampness of electric summer night.
A red squirrel, tiny, chipmunk,
finds the open end of a hollow log
broken at the edge of the stream.
Water running down
plunks on the weathered banjo skin
of rocks, trickling in harmony,
and the school of tiny fish
chase quickly, hastened bands
of returning geese.
The earth holds us in her hands,
an insect naps on pontoons of air
upon the surface of a slow pool,
flicking to stay in place.
I approach to look over,
the minnows pack up their game
taking it down t the silty underside of rocks,
returning after we forget each other.
Moss, the greenest of these woods,
grows on rocks about the stream,
tiny forests on an island surrounded by sea.
The rocks on the slope
with tendrils of vine bare and asleep
rise solid knowingly
streaked with moss,
like Chinese mountains above mists.
To be alone, when you need to,
without being alone,
the gift of woody places.