Forest Messenger

I often contemplate Mary Oliver’s poem “Messenger” while I forest breathe. In honor of, here is an homage to the Forest.

My work is learning to love the world.
Here the salvia, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the surprising fungi; there the snowberry.
Here the mycelium meandering through the forest floor.

Are my pants torn? Is there mud under my fingernails?
Am I no longer young, and still ridiculously burdened by fear? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly sitting still and learning to be
astonished.
The Pacific Wren, the Elecampane.
The bees in the meadow, and the grasses.
Which is mostly relaxing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the drunk honeybees,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

With gratitude for Mary Oliver.