I think of the winter woods as a gallery
that features the art of its trees. On my desk
an index card is inked with words, hand-printed,
to remind me what to notice when I visit there:
lines form textures colors rhythm patterns motion.
They silently sing link a mantra as I wander
through the gallery’s arched wooden halls.
Today, a mild and damp mid-February day,
shrouded in mist, I felt called to visit.
As I walked on the leaf-strewn ground,
packed hard now by the winter, my eyes
focused on the details: the fallen needles
and cones strewn on an oak leaf carpet,
the barks of the trees, the depth of color
in the misty light, the images that the curves
evoked. I was quite intent on these,
yet fully aware of the thickness of the air
and the way it seemed to wrap everything,
including me, in dream-like mystery.
I drifted along in this mesmerized state
for some time before I turned toward home.
And that’s when I saw the shaggy horned
creature emerging from the mist, a giant
of a beast. We stared at each other,
assessing the situation. Then I bowed
in acknowledgment of it and greeting, and the air
between us grew clear and we became for each other
an old woman, hiking with a camera,
and the muddied roots of an old, fallen tree.