Muir Woods, a poem

illustration muir woods

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.


1 Comment

Filed under beauty, earth, eternity, god, good, mortality, mysterious, nature, soul, spirit, spiritual, truth, universe, wood

One response to “Muir Woods, a poem

  1. Amber Danette

    I often wonder if the trees can hear us too :O) Lovely poem.

    Liked by 1 person

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