the trees wake me up

*from last winter*

Yesterday I went into the woods.

I took with me Hamlet, and snowshoes, and the stew of static I carry, my wicked halo. Conjuring doubt, formulating tricks and untruths, questions that beckon to nowhere. That pull me with hook and weight, down, and further down. Devilish and slippery, they knit my brow and crook my neck. I see vapors, shadows, whispers….

Then I look up. Breath, breathing, cold and clean and separate. Trees, my trees, bastions of un.doing. White pines in their straight strength, hemlocks in feathered grace, and bare, beautiful oak. In cool blueish (almost pink) afternoon, the sun deep in the west, I laugh at constructed gravity.

But as soon as I draw one deep breath (or perhaps even on its cusp) I shake my head in shame – my trees? Yes I’d already gilded them, wrapped them in words, made them for me, degraded them with purpose. Hemlock and pine are mysteries I will never unfold. Locked in the law of subjectivity, I am deeply humbled. But to crumble would not be proper, either.

I go inside, and I wash my blue cup, the one with the braided handle, slowly. I keep my eyes on it until it’s settled, entirely, on the shelf. I let my hand linger a bit as my fingers trace the fur beneath Hamlet’s collar. I notice all three of us are going gray.