In an old forest, the tree canopy and trunks
get all the glory, the mainmast
and sails in a
great ship of brown and
green.
The forest floor is mycorrhizal
connections,
a fungal nervous system veining soil and
water.
The understory
is an unsung margin where one
ecology touches
another as an in-between, not
claiming much sky
or soil but joining both.
Come pause there with me in a
hymn-green
circle of moss embracing the friable
ground
where smooth white quartz pebbles
wait like punctuation.
Wild roses and salal leaves like
ears become low sanctuary walls,
and a ring of attentive fir trees
holds us in from the beyond.
If I take your hand and lead you
in, know that you
are quietly treasured. My eyes were lit to tell you this.
There a stump waits as a seat where
we balance
the goodness of this afternoon
against the
mixed choir of feelings we carry like so much wood.
Here we are greenly blessed. Here the rest of the world
is silenced. Here time has flowed off to change
into something more comforting,
and so will I, even if it is just soft eyes and a kind word
as we sit back-to-back on this margin
of connection:
Yes, there is this
understory reaching between us.
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2023
