Little

When I first saw

the piece of forest that is my backyard

I stood in awe

little me, a bright dot on a vastness of green

surrounded by tall firs that swallowed miles

I took deep gulps of fresh air into my lungs

In disbelief, this was my home now

newly born of wonder.

Every day I dove into it

and swam, coursing through verdant seas

witnessing sky, sketching oak trees-

madrones, uncountable,

kneeling down with a thousand ferns

in sunshadows, we prayed.

Months later, I knew the pathways-

walked them all, breathing hard,

legs aching to conquer each direction

I even captured them on a map

the largest moss-covered sentinels, noted, named,

hazel halls cooled in summer, glowed in fall

became skeletal in winter.  You know,

maybe hundreds of ferns, realistically, covered this slope

astride that now-familiar gang

of snowberries, confettiing September.

Every morning, walking and noting true distance:

less than a mile across now.

In winter the neighbors’ frosted roofs became

visible, which made perfect sense.

the edge came sooner than I expected,

in any direction, joggers passed

on their way between streets

a stroller on the trail

a beer can against a fence

a rest, though my legs didn’t ache.

black cat across the neighbor’s gate

down the hill, a poodle barked,

a few feet of ivy between it and me.

wasn’t that young oak there, striving to grow,

or was that further up at the bend?  I turned,

heading up the path to take cover.

but the largest madrone had fallen,

letting the calm sunlight creep

I counted the others

fewer steps now to the border

where trees gave way to power lines

back again up the hill to the old park

where someone had planted daffodils

I couldn’t pace far enough away -

once a wild place, now tamed.

Sunrise spilled down the woodland room

boxed in from sill to sill.

automatic steps within its boundary

like passing from toothbrush to coffeepot, I

closed my eyes, recalling ferns I had once knelt beside

leaned in, hearing birds chatting, undaunted by their new size

every yellow thread of trillium and bee lined in microns, not miles.

I stretched out my hand to contain this grove

on the platform of my palm.

I could pass each fir through a needle

stitching them down carefully in my memory.

Those velvet mosses still shine like emeralds,

this place an ornate broach of memory gifted to me,

lucky little me.