Muir Woods, a poem

Muir Woods, a poem

 

The eye is drawn, farther and farther

toward thin blue sky until the green feathery

 

tops of the trees are like the northern pole

on some dream planet. Your carsickness

 

from the ride up the mountain begins to fade,

leaving behind a breathless, weepy echo

 

not unlike your first religious fervor.

Then, you stared at Jesus’ sad face for hours,

 

wondering what it was that made him

love you. Here, it is the usual paralysis,

 

nerves made dumb by the unaccustomed

richness of perfect light. Vague, starry eyes

 

like yours feel at home. The air is weighty,

burdensome, solemn. Tall and slender, your guide

 

touches your wrist, and for a moment, you too

want to leave the surface of the earth

 

forever. Shyly, she picks up a tiny

pinecone, smaller than a toy. You laugh

 

when she tells you this is their seed:

all around, their ravaged, hollow

 

corpses litter the ground

like the bones of God.

 

In this place you feel helpless,

childlike, and you can understand a wish

 

to die here, never leave this hush.

They’re only trees, you tell yourself.

 

Yes, only trees, you think, standing still with

your neck bent back; wondering if they hear you.