THE LAMENT

You have no way 

of knowing

how you got here.

You have no map

to verify the terrain

that is now behind you.

Did you climb mountains,

cross rivers in a canoe?

All you have is 

what’s before you now:

an old growth redwood,

the morning mist,

and the shimmering 

green ferns 

up to your neck.

You are on your knees 

in the mud and weeping.

The feathered fronds, 

their touch, and the sight 

of them bejeweled in dew,

opens you to

a lament that has been 

incubating inside you,

opens a portal erased 

of any fear and around which 

no one is peddling certainty.

It is safe to walk through.

And you do.

You feel a great wheel 

turning around a center.

Your voice is that center.

Your song is the turning.

Something is wanting 

to move through you.

Let it. Let it pass through.

The mountains, the rivers, 

the trees are waiting 

to hear your inconsolable song.