trees are said to be old and gnarled
shaped by the winds that whisper
and scream and hush at the same time.
in a distant place, and a not-so-distant time
i recall resting below a great mountain juniper,
my boyish dreams cast onto its flanks
seeking escape from a lonely world of
hills, valleys and mountain meadows.

there, where i gazed on stranger stars,
and where the river sang me to sleep
and sustained my dreams until i
woke again to the glacial silt of ages past,
as rain and cloud and bark enveloped
my wide eyed ruminations of distant lands,
there, i found something that transformed me.
to this day i still recall
the first time...