Bed of Needles

For a few short breaths
I find myself nestled in the bed of needles
beneath frayed umbrellas smelling like that first week of December
when the Christmas tree paints the living room green.

Here, far north of man-scapes and concrete dreams
unbesieged by a muddle of petty anesthetics and miniscule grandeurs
the thunder cracks louder off every unmarked path and speckled rock and root
and the show I watch from beneath my pine helps wash old dust off my feet.

The signs in the skies change like the whims of a woman bearing new life
E’n so, the chant of the wind has carried the death of all that I could not leave behind.
Be still, as all the world rages around,
to know that He Is, if only for a breath.