Today,
as I did yesterday,
and shall do tomorrow,
I hugged my beloved human
and canine,
and stood tall as I walked
out our front door,
eager for the deep woods.
Trees, Trees, Trees.

Have you ever felt that pulse of life on a tree,
even in the dead of winter?
Ever felt the pulse of life
when the tree is bare, all twigs, 
branches, and trunk,
yet alive, regarding you
as you wrestle with life's meaning?

I am alive today because of the bare trees 
in the woods. I stand in awe as the recognition
lights up in me. Like these trees in this cold season,
what I have lost is now mulch, like the rotten leaves and seed underfoot. All frozen in the winter of my life
yet turning and yielding to life on Earth.

The trees seem to say: If you could just stop being so precious about what's lost, the second spring of your life will dazzle you with new flowering. It is given to those who let go of what life once gave and life has taken back. 
It leaves one naked, but for the bark that is creation's intimate and worldly gift to those who do not cling to the flowers, leaves, and fruit of bygone seasons.

What stays and who stays
is the Earth and the soil that grounds; the air that whispers life's mysteries. What stays and who stays are the intimates who hear the moans and groans
as the bark of life yields to the elements
making room for the pulse of a lush life, come spring. What stays and who stays will catch the rich harvest, come summer. What stays and who stays will witness the eternal cycle of life on Earth. The sun, its planets, and their moons.

I lean deeply on the tree trunk, and feel myself become human again as a deep memory surfaces in me: 
The soul of the tree is not stuck in place.
It roams this Earth, animating terrestrial life. Earth, this sacred place that holds and rocks human terror, greed, love, tenderness, and everything in-between. The trees know, having arrived before humans, though not the first. They know the growing pains of resurrection on Earth, the know-it-all cockiness of the newly arrived.

I breath deeply, and hug tight;
the electric charge unmistakable.
Ah, to hug a tree, my eternal ritual in spirit,
a spi-ritual experience.
Always.