Sun filters through the cedar—
bark long, shaggy.
Needles like lace.
Light moves through them like a flashlight.
Breath moves the limbs.
Presence stays.
A gliding silhouette—brown and green.
Beneath the tree,
my back held by rock,
soil rising in a mound.
Presence is here.
But the past is held—
like personalities gathered in my solar plexus.
Birdsong reveals the spaces between—
branches, laced needles,
blue sky meeting openness.
Memories of loneliness,
unmet emotion—
yet the sky holds still.
Clouds drift.
White puffs of silence, moving.
Unlike this—
these tight, unmoving currents
in my solar plexus.
And still, the cedar remains.
Today. Tomorrow.
The day after that.
Rooted. Present.
And these energies—
not even mine—
will one day loosen,
lift,
and drift
like clouds across the sky—
no longer held,
but free.
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