The Cedar Garden



I gently tugged

the cedar


dislodging them

from wet leaf

sweet decaying

soil, imagining

golden mycelium

threads –

antiviral, antibacterial light

glowing fiercely underground,

ready to heal,

probing for carbon,

transporting water

and minerals

helping new rootlets

to grow,

anchoring these seedlings


to one another

to decaying stumps,

moss covered banks,

so they might thrive

in the Cedar Garden

by the brook.


This garden we will create together

by Trillium rock, the place

my dead are buried.


It’s peaceful there.


He brings me four more cedars

to add to the ones that I

have planted in pots.

“Would I care for them

until we  plant our garden?”

Of course, I reply

with delight.


Someday, a cedar

forest will thrive here

because the boy and I

love trees,

hear voices,

breathe in sweet scents,

draw down Her Grace.

He creates art

from tree stumps.

I gift with gratitude

and words.


Our bodies cannot contain

the anguish of massive tree loss;

Our dark eyes meet

in silent recognition

of ‘what is’ –

this place beyond weeping.


The Earth is crying out…

La Llarona keens;

We see and feel her rising

out of the mist

clouding the brook.

The loss of Our Mother

is incomprehensible.


We will plant

a future together

and he will care for

this land when I

am gone…

until it’s time.

The forest loves him.

As I do.


In my heart

I can see the trees –

Shaggy trunks

growing straight

and tall –

shaped like giant teardrops,

emerald fronds,

clusters of tight green cones

ripening through a season or two –


bursting brown florets

ejecting seeds

that will land close

to the Mother Trees

that were

once the seedlings

we planted together…