When the day is emptied of its charms
and despair descends,
heavy as a sack,
I mount the hill and walk the forest ley-lines
to stand inside a quiet clearing
and hear my breath.
Songbirds gossip
as I lean against my old man tree,
a warrior He, a forest elder.
Pressed against his stately bark, I whisper all my questions.
Arms barely reaching half way round his girth;
I close my eyes and let the colours rush – amber, pink, orange
some days white.
Tree presence, life essence;
charging up my heart,
until it’s full.
No answers in return;
few are needed on the way back down the hill.
—
This post was previously published on medium.com.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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Photo credit: Lucas on Unsplash
