A windsong makes an invitation,
so the grasses may cry.
Landscape closer to Winter
yet green leaves push through soft Earth.
My father does not appear in these fresh shoots
or within the red bird that has been following me.
He’s not here.
Gracious man I called papa is in the lessons and emotions
held within the scenery of living.
He is the awe that my grief can be so almighty
and still the pinecone can ask to be named.
There was no expectation to find dad on the trail.
I hadn’t realized I was looking.
Within sight are tiny white flowers
Yellow, and purple blooms.
Unfurling ferns and scents that change
with more or less warmth from the sun.
It is 9,000 feet closer to the sky from the Earth
surrounded by Pine, Fir, and Aspen
that my lungs find the support they need to miss the one I am still learning is absent.
Full embodied missing is my spirit practice.
How to allow everything to be enough?
Simple request made more possible by listening
to daylight upon skin, and seeing one’s heart in all things.
This search is not because I am lost.
I look because it feels holy.