I climbed the southwestern slope this morning.
It’s slow going, strewn with hidden rocks
and roots and vines. Mostly I’m looking
for the next place to put my foot, not only
for my sake, but because the wild violets
and baby ferns are everywhere. I pause
with every step, marveling at the shapes
and shades of green rising from the earth,
at miniscule flowers, and tall ones dancing
on slim stems, and the tiny buds and
newborn leaves on the branches of vines
and trees. I am so immersed in it
that I forget I am there, that such a thing
as me exists at all.
Later in the day I found myself looking
at the slope from its base, at the fresh green
of it and at the way the afternoon light
dappled the hill. I saw the reality
of the trees and recalled how I could feel
their aliveness on my climb the way
you feel your cat curled on his chair
across the room even when you are
giving him no attention at all.
I got to see this, I said to myself.
I got to be here.