White fir, you are fine in your frosty coat. The weight of the season rests on your branches. Hunker down, sweet conifer. May I make tea from your needles?
I hike over rocks and moss and fallen branches. I hike to the peak and look around. The sky is so large. Can I transcend here? Tell me.
I pretend to be a cryptid as I scramble down over rocks and moss and fallen branches. I am sweating in my poncho and boots and shouting lines of poetry trying to make something from the intersection of nature and verse.
I pass by you again, dear tree. Did you see that lonesome mushroom there, nestled at your feet?
Harmony Mooney
This article appears in Health & Wellness 2024.