White Pine at the Retreat

Highest of them all, white pine,
you reach for light,
nine stories into sky.
But it’s at your base I lie
curled to your deep grooved trunk.
Grandmother Pine,
you hear my sorrow
and help me let it flow

into the ground, onto your roots,
my sorrow
turning into compost
for some new life to arise.
Because you hold me close,
Grandmother Pine,
my river comes undammed.
I let the hidden trauma go.

Now a wind arises
and I hear the stirring
high in the sky at your crown.
I hear a woman
dancing batter in her bowl,
first fast and loud, then slow and soft.
Wind stirs circles in your topmost branches
telling me it’s time to be alive again.

            ©Susa Silvermarie 2025