"you have nothing to do but live."
I met a tree on Tuesday in the damp
woods above a sunset beach named Golden
Gardens. The muddy trail led to
and past. Northwest brambles framed
and shielded its amazing-most structure.
Some landslip once rent the mid-life trunk
in equal halves, left an uphill stand,
and a downslope lean.
Thus splayed, heartwood living, the
singular tree held its oneness
high above my head.
The trunks, braced against each other,
birthed a miniature forest,
a chorus of branches and trees
as if from a nurse log.
Naming a wound does not heal it.
Shallow roots tangle in earth,
coastal air weaves spider mists,
waters seep up inner canals,
rising green canopy hallelujahs the sun.
© 1995 by Nina Redman
Nina Redman is published in Orphic Lute and Raven Chronicles. She is a psychotherapist in private practice and thrives on wilderness and poetry.