When I Am Among the Trees

In this time of year where I live, the air is crystal clear most days and the ground covered in ice.  The seeds and pods sleep awaiting returning warmth.  During this month of deep winter, I often open this poem to remind me that words are small suns that teach us and warm us to the core, even when the world in which we find ourselves is fraught and tinged with chill.

 

Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,

especially the willows and the honey locust,

equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,

they give off such hints of gladness.

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,

in which I have goodness, and discernment,

and never hurry through the world

but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves

and call out, “Stay awhile.”

The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,

“and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine.”