Pass trunk to trunk
your movements, a pulse
of an organelle in the forest cell.
The bars of the conifer grove
denote home. The fibrous
living welcome mats are beneath
your feet, they reach for miles,
tangling over and under themselves.
They, up the twigs, are an extension
of your own vascular system. You
are among only safe kin here. Stretch,
spread your back, unfasten
the hook and eye that clasps
your shoulder blades.
Let your fingertips reach
with the layered limbs
their horizons extend yours.
Lean your back against the scratch
of vertical bark. Know home
in the aromatherapy of pine gum,
lay yourself down on the damp dawn
a bed of needles that cannot pierce,
cannot mend or weave or work, only be,
only smooth your brow. Even as
you wipe your hands of them and
would leave, they press themselves
like creased pins of dollars into your hands
their polished red imprints in your palms
wishing you only the best, safe trip