Peace in the redwood forest primeval,
Cell connectivity is lost: thought without interruption.
Wandering beside ancient giants,
Glen temperatures were low and cool.
I gaze up to the sky, invisible under the canopy.
The tops of trees are lost in a bright, green blur.
My children and I hunt for gnome homes.
Dark places keep their secrets, as we stay on the paths.
Yet magic is in the very air, all things seem possible.
From the green twilight, we spy a glade,
Emerald grass shining with the first sunlight seen.
Surely the fae dance there, shimmering between worlds.
Distances are deceptive in the photograph: the tiny bit of blue is a tall man, nearly swallowed by a distant curve in the path.
The oldest tree in Muir Woods is 1500 years old, born the year 514: it’s parent would have been capable of being born 3000 B.C., a distance in time to us unfathomable, yet only one generation apart in the forest primeval. Perhaps the spirits of the ancients still watch from beyond this world.
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham