Stepping Through the Year to Yule

One day in early Spring
I stepped into the woods
to see the forest bare one last time.
Nothing but brown leaves
grey trunks
flashes of fuschia redbuds.

I stepped into my son’s smile
to see him as a child
one last year.

I woke too early in the morning
to contemplate the color of my own eyes
in that particular light.

Pulling up
in the driveway of my childhood
home
removing my sunglasses;
it was so shady in the woods,
with the trees
once more pulling out their their greenery,
like stepping into a ballroom
where all the fine ladies are oaks
and maples.

In the thick swamp of summer
I stepped into the woods again and found Box Turtle
on the trail looking right at me – cautious but brave.
A noble midsummer salute.

Patches of steamy sunlight trickled down
through the deciduous jungle canopy.
So humid your skin becomes the air
and the air is the water in your skin.

Resistance can only lead to suffering.
I became diaphanous.

Giant prehistoric blooms of polypores
graced the trail’s edge.
Twirly skirts of shelfy mushrooms
peeked out of fallen logs in a long lacy line
as if fae folk were dancing
inside this righteously decaying log
with just the ends of their lacy skirts
poking out as they turned in unison.

I stepped through the fallen leaves
and hugged the moss and realized I’ve been going around just
scared
all the time.

The heart can feel heavy and broken
just from the weight of it’s own water molecules.

Down, down, stepping into the darkness of the year
until Brigid’s bright return.

Meanwhile the ferns are the only green thing in a sea
of burnt golden sepia surrender.*

Low reaching sunbeams
stop to turn the treetops orange each day
and I savor the scarce warmth.

On days like this when the wheel turns,
I begin to fathom the immortality
pulsing through
this earthy flesh.

We really do belong here
at home
stepping into every season.