1.
When the trail levels, my uphill panting calms
so I can hear again the drips of
leftover rain on leaves, light and soft
and sweetened with sunlight,
like the language of birds.
And what are the birds saying now?
Do they notice me? Are they asking
questions, making plans? They too
have been waiting for the forest
to be slick with spring; they too
have been praising
the persistent promise
of the earth, yet they
never once doubted,
never once despaired.
2.
It’s not that problems disappear,
but in between trees
there’s space to breathe. The leaves
are gentle. The sounds
are soft. Somewhere a deer
walks. Somewhere a squirrel
hides its food. Somewhere
an owl sleeps, worrying
about nothing.
3.
And don’t I wish
I could be
like the trees?
Tall, steadfast,
rooted. Thankful
for both sun and rain,
their arms always open
to the sky.
