Milkyoat and Redwood

Waking dreams of milky oats wafting

touched delicately by the first rays of sunlight.

A musing, a meeting of toucher and touched,

a participatory symbiosis,

for one would cease to exist with out the other.

And id like to think that my presence

perceiving this miracle unfold

like it does, without care or judgement or hesitancy

with each passing day,

That I too am somehow adding to this magic

which swoons me into silence.

Oh, and I yearn to be like the grasses.

Or know, at least for a moment, what a grass-life holds,

being so damm good at what they do.

So successful.

So gentle.

So important.

So demonized.

So taken for granted.

These marvelous monocots.

As I walk upon them this morning

I could feel in a new way

how they hold the Earth together.

Living fabric of the rhizosphere

warping and wefting the tapestry of which we walk upon.

Ive never seen grass grow under Sequoia like it does here,

this tiny patch of oasis amongst a sea of vines.

A peculiar place that ive always admired from a distance.

But as soon as I invited my body vertical into this new day,

and I saw the golden rays streaming in through the window

I knew I and they were ready for this meeting

The grasses, and the Sequoia

a meeting that has been working me

for longer than I have been in this body.

Sweet, young ones.

The ones with wood of red

not but 30 years older than me

and probably 300 times as tall.

How much you’ve already seen

How much you know, stored in the lignin and cellulose of your being

I come to you with prayer, and also for council

Teach us, if you may be so gracious

What it means to be of place

and to care for it.

To be strong, standing tall and grounded like the Redwood

while sweet, sensitive and delicate like the milky oats

both swaying rhythmically

at different cadences

to the all encompassing song

of Now.