I had no plan to climb this ridge.
I was following a winding brook,
pale gold in the light of winter’s
afternoon sun, when the pines
caught my eye, their soft boughs
green against the faded russet
of their fellow oaks’ fallen leaves.
It’s like that sometimes.
A part of me I cannot name rises
from my center to wordlessly point
the way. I have learned to heed it.
And standing here, on a February day
in the midst of these pines, I know why.