Forever, I asked to not be me, but a place
instead. Old cedars, devil’s club– little creek,
kneel, drink. No years in the berries, just dusk’s
breath of gnats, my Thank You like catkins, deer’s
wheeze– here, gone, home again. When one trail
ended in fireweed, my saw set down
in stems, I sat by the rill and said Here.
This is where. And learned how moving water
watched long enough makes cedars bend as if
they’re still forming, ever malleable.
Palm’s terrain against my chest, this is true.
I said Please, mountain. Please, creek. Let me see
a bear. And in slant-light like a grandfather,
I shouldered my pack, laced those boots. Turned. Saw.