Go into the woods
and tell your story
to the trees.
They are wise
standing in their folds of silence
among white crystals of rock
and dying limbs.
And they have time.
Time for the swaying of leaves,
the floating down,
the dust.
They have time for gathering
and holding the earth about their feet.
Do this.
It is something I have learned.
How they will bend down to you
so softly.
They will bend down to you
and listen.
~Laura Foley, “The Quiet Listeners” from Syringa

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
~Mary Oliver “When I am Among the Trees”

It seems I’m perpetually wandering
in the figurative forest of my days on this earth,
unsure where I’m heading,
struggling to figure out where I’ve been.
The trees want to hear my story and like few others,
they listen.

I follow a path laid out before me,
keeping my head down to make sure
I don’t trip over a root or stumble on a rock,
when around and above me are the clues
to who and where I am and where I’m going.

So I stop,
stand still,
breathe deeply of this life,
looking up at these trees who urge me to shine
no matter where I am.

I was lost, and now am found.