I stand in a forest, aromatic, wet, green and earthy and full of life.
I sit cushioned inside before a gas fire crackling in an alcove through stone logs.
Within the imperfect circle of redwoods, the air, fresh, encompasses me in a respectful hug.
The old heater burps and bellows air secure in the quadrangle room, warmth against cool rectangles of glass bearing beautiful light.
Reaching out, I touch a low branch, stroke redwood needles, smooth in one direction, sharp edges in the other. A friendly lesson.
Gazing out windows at those trees against a distant hill, I see no pathway from here, just hesitating cold when I am warm. A lesson again, if attentive.
The trees encourage deep breaths, awareness of the soft ground underfoot, the sorrel, birdsong. Deep within I hear and understand, I needn’t fear.
At home, eyelids fall, breathing shallows in comfort engineered, but comfort nonetheless.
The trees under changing skies complete the comfort, all that is beyond walls.
The house, human shelter, built, paid, belongs to me. That’s nice.
The trees, they simply assure me that I belong.