I live where the big trees live; I know the great privilege of this.
They keep watch as have done for one hundred years,
branches overarching streets as though welcoming royalty.
But those who move through the shade and beauty are only we,
the small, careless ones.
Leaves are scattered, precious gold and ancient fire at my feet,
promises of regeneration on the holy breath of wind.
They cascade down, spin about, weave brilliant auras round us all.
Showy or shy leaves dust trails with their etched tree-hands,
then sail off to bless some other.
I live here on this earth, O Our Majesty, where there is
a thunderous whisper of leaves and branches as I pass.
Above and beyond are invitations: red for welcome,
orange for mischief, yellow for wealth of spirit.
Crinkly brown reminds that even splendor must lay down, rest.
I live where the big trees live. I know the great privilege.
They will watch over me, keep vigil for you.
They do not forget to speak to us in the chill and glory
of the days and nights as we rush, though we should tarry.
Listen and hear: all our lives they sing their primordial songs,
and gather us into the circle as their very own.
Copyright 2011 Cynthia Guenther Richardson