Roots and Branches

Roots and Branches

Laying under a tree

on a hot summer eve

with the solstice sun still hanging

in the deep, blue sky. 

I squirm on the grass

until the roots support my head.

I imagine the tree cradling me

like a baby in her arms. 

I look up into the blanket

of leaves wiggling above me,

sending the breeze

to play with my hair. 

Tiny holes in the green

filament allow light

to touch my face

but not burn my skin. 

The moment is idyllic; I breathe

in the goodness of it, inhaling

the memory to be savored

on a long, cold January night. 

I consider the tree:

her roots, her branches.

I think of God who created

her, as well as me. 

I have entered into the

great temple. Its grandeur

always surrounding me, 

if I have the eyes to behold;

if I have the heart to worship.