Hurricane Ridge

“But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; And none shall make them afraid: For the mouth of the Lord of hosts hath spoken it.” Micah 4:4

At the top of the world there are only trees -
  the only sounds a beating heart,
  the traffic of starlings,
  and the steady hum of silence -
  a wild silence.

Here the forests stretch -
  combed, brushed, alert,
  the skies painted with snow,
  the ground dipped in wildflowers.

This is no garden laid in perfect rows,
  no vineyards chain the rolling hills,
  no planted fields interrupt the trees,
  and my heart says - this is home.

I have never slept here,
  not once beneath the stars.
The only house for miles
  lies just beneath my skin.

But as my lungs expand to fill the sky
  a furrough is ploughed with every breath.
  There is a planting.

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