The Grove

You won’t see me grow old.

I said under my breathe.

There’s a part of the trail in Muir Woods where everything goes quiet.

It’s called Cathedral Grove

There is no reception there.

The air is crisp

The redwoods capture the sounds.

You can hear your own breathe

The swish of your jacket against your jeans

The clinking of your water bottle clipped to your bag.

The sun streaks through the trees like an

Accordion of Joy.

In that moment I remember what it feels like to be immortal.

What it feels like to live.

The bark is so thick.

These trees fire resilient

We like them are ancient evergreens.

If only for today.

If only for this moment.

Our roots. Shallow.

But our reach—-hundreds of feet high.

I wonder if the quiet makes you feel alive too.

The humming.

The aching.

The being.

The standing

The quiet.

I wonder.