One

Walking through these woods

I watch a tree branch kiss a flower

its arch but only barely reaching

pink creviced heart aching to be touched.

A chorus of croaks line bushed fields

plump legs a savory treat, some say.

For some, they want it all.

For some, all is never enough.

But I remember the joyous,

bathed in dappled light

cedar and pine-sap love

comfort in the purest sense.

Not perfect but, perfection,

bare feet on dark earth

encased in Mothers womb.

Yes, I am home. I am home.

Where the heart is, some say,

where my soul sings, I say.

A walk in these woods beckons

remembrance of the whole,

One