Dust Time

 Old growth forests contain a magic alchemy 

that connects one to the source, the origin, the Big Bang.

The star dust we are composed of seeks a home which 

cannot be found in the broken and 

attempting to heal 

landscapes mowed into miniscule patches 

like a flesh wound on the surface of a human terrace,

trying to heal by crossing a massive valley we usually suture with thread.

Most of nature we see has been split 

into tiny fragments, 

sometimes sutured together into wilderness

 corridors 

once man has exploited their easy to reach elevations.

The dust that ties us to 

the fungus, the insects, bacteria, protozoa, 

is infinitesimally small, and as such,

those massive inert valleys we created 

cutting ancestors to their ankles with our metal machinery,

 combusting dinosaurs and 

releasing plague after plague of hooved locusts are 

too large for the building blocks 

which used to be like ever-extending hands on a clock, 

the longer we left them the more clear our

 place in time became, 

now must be given tremendous time to 

find all of the perfect polarities to 

piece back together all of 

their pre-historic partnerships.

Believe me, 

it will happen. 

But we humans may not see that glory.

We have perhaps 5% of the old growth forest still in existence in California. 

But like a single tree, 

the more we cut away, 

the less resilient the rest of the forest becomes.

Inversely, 

the more time we spend in old growth forests, 

the more resilient we become.

The dust I am made of knows its home.

I walk into the ancient redwood forest and 

they welcome me to my origin in a way 

only the stars and the ocean can.

Like a soldier home from war, 

the leaves cheer me on as I walk deeper.

I take my shoes off and 

the soil life pushes me up and 

opens a valve in the bottom of my feet 

to release

my murky waters within like 

the original oil change. 

I slurp up the terpenes 

from their outbreath and 

as they pour down my nose and throat 

they loosen my jaw, 

my ears unclog, 

my shoulders droop as if 

I'm being covered by a warm blanket on the inside.

I find my spot between two enormous red columns, 

pointed up to the stars, 

so tall they look to be two lovers touching noses. 

They speak to the stars and the seas, 

bringing water inland and life to the ends

 of streams. 

I lay myself down between.

I rest where the stars meet the seas

at the feet of nature's tallest conductors

falling back into a million years of soil and

turning the satellites 

on the sides of my head

to enjoy

the concerto of origin.