Meditation by Tess Baumberger
To live the life of a tree,
To stand and rest
so silent, so composed,
each day a meditation.
To feel your toes
curled in the earth,
to feel your limbs
stretching to the sky,
claiming sun and life.
To feel yourself expanding
as each ringing year drops
a pebble into your pool.
To feel your thick skin
crackle as you grow.
To cloak yourself slowly
in green hoar-frost mosses,
furry, drinking mist.
To spread your several hands
in diverse directions.
To feel your thousand fingers
drumming in the wind.
To feel your blood flow
down in long-drawn winter,
hunkered under earth,
then whistle up again in spring,
and burst a chorus of buds,
an enthusiasm in green.
To drink the sun in gracefully.
To breath out slowly oxygen.
To stand observing everything.
The patience of a tree.
To live the life of a tree,
To stand and rest
so silent, so composed,
each day a meditation.
To feel your toes
curled in the earth,
to feel your limbs
stretching to the sky,
claiming sun and life.
To feel yourself expanding
as each ringing year drops
a pebble into your pool.
To feel your thick skin
crackle as you grow.
To cloak yourself slowly
in green hoar-frost mosses,
furry, drinking mist.
To spread your several hands
in diverse directions.
To feel your thousand fingers
drumming in the wind.
To feel your blood flow
down in long-drawn winter,
hunkered under earth,
then whistle up again in spring,
and burst a chorus of buds,
an enthusiasm in green.
To drink the sun in gracefully.
To breath out slowly oxygen.
To stand observing everything.
The patience of a tree.