It may have been in the not-so-distant past, it may have been a few years from now, but it was a good moment and she was living it fully.
Admiring her environment with a pristine clarity, her eyes trace hidden patterns in the bark of cedar trees. Their slow, steady heartbeats caressing her ears, blending with the whisper of boughs in the wind. Ferns rustle at their feet and expose pale underbellies to the sky, ordered rows of green and red seeds marching down the fronds.
Beneath her the forest floor is warm and sandy, littered with the dry scales of the shedding cedar trees and a scattering of pine needles. Her toes burrow beneath the surface like roots questing for water and her hair blows around her, dancing with the trees. Inhaling the green scents riding the breeze, she feels it fill her lungs, her blood, expanding her flesh with a slight tingle.
The song of seeds rise up from the darkness, filled with a yearning for sunlight and the sweet nectar of rain. She hums along with a smile.
The large boulder that braces her back with it’s cool, angled flesh, was once the appendage of a living mountain. It still holds the memory of thin air, snowstorms and the flight of a hawk. Like a severed starfish, it lives a new life of shifting shadows and the occasional squirrel, a quiet resting place for a traveler’s weary brain.
She raises her arms to the sky, allowing the sunlight to soak into her branches. Holding this moment in perfect silence, she expands herself to encompass the emotion… She has become a part of the earth; rooted and dancing, breathing and knowing… Understanding as never before what it means to be a sentient being.
Perhaps words could capture a portion of the detail, relate to another a small fraction of the wisdom, but the fullness of it’s beauty will forever be cherished within her, branded on the surface of consciousness.
With eyes that will never again allow a falling autumn leaf to go unacknowledged, or the flight of a sparrow to be lightly regarded, she reaches for a pen…
A blank page mocks her with a stark indifference so far removed from nature’s tranquility, it’s white flesh a harsh contrast to the soft forest. A page however, holds the memory of trees in the same way the boulder remembers the mountain and this is something every poet knows…
She struggles to articulate epiphany, knowing the ink will never capture the glories of soul or the freedom of surrender…
She will try anyway of course, just to see what will happen.