Things Unseen

This breath moves in. 

It is slightly held before a forced, if not thorough, release. 

Gasps for grounding barely audible above the arrogant growls from motorbikes, trucks, and vintage cars below me. 

Breath seems to merge with momentary stirrings of foxtails and tall grasses with heads drooping heavy with purple seed thoughts. 

Comfort of curled leaves unfurl from reaching arms of steady oaks. The stable structure of these old ones supports a subtle sense of sanctuary. 

Familiar rolling chirps assure me that I’m some kind of home. 

Waves of treetop whispers tell timeless tales of wild ones in oak groves. 

I'm taken to where no one interrupts the tree speak or outshines the moonbeams. 

Here I soak in warmth from the hearth fire, held by the wonder of weaving webs of wisdom.