I recently went to the mountains, and while sitting among the trees this poem came.
When I go to the woods
I bring no books along
preferring instead to read
the primary sources:
the opinion columns of pines
persuasive essays by incense cedars
an array of novels from oak trees.
Quaking aspens are poetry of light
There is philosophy in fallen logs.
I study the hieroglyphs of former
wildfires to glean memories
of the Before time.
Even dead trees have purpose
as nurseries for animals and plants;
the rhymes arising from them
are kissed by the wind,
then float away.