Acorn Dreaming Oak

 

A tall oak tree sits in the center of the clearing, shading me from 

the mid-day sun. I eat my lunch at the table in the garden and 
collect acorns the porcupine has not yet found. 
Feeling the smooth seed husk 

and the rough-patterned cap, I am reminded of the 

mystery of dreaming and becoming. The acorn dreams the oak, 

becoming what it already is. I remember, breathe, and tell myself 

to be patient. I am a dreaming acorn, 

I am dreaming a magnificent oak. Dreaming is blurry at times, 

my life feels blurry at times. I wonder if the acorn spends time 

pondering life and what it should do next. Hmmm. 

Seems the acorn flows into the oak, breath 

by breath, season by season, 

not knowing how to be anything else 

but an acorn becoming

an oak. 

I remind myself of thisas the world around me tells 

me I am suppose to become something. 

I sit under the oak,holding the small acorn 

in my hand thinking -there is a grand mystery here - 

if I breathe and remember to sink my roots deep into earth 

and dream, then it must be the same for me. 

I will be what I am. For I see the pattern.

And in the forest, 

the mountain laurel is dreaming flowers.

Flower mandalas of white and red and green. 

 

 

Green and ancient growing things cling to rock ledges.

  

As the shadows lengthen, Pasha and I 

meander through hemlocks and 

gaze into pools of green, 

       

and dash straight up 

as far as we can climb

(well, at least one of us does)

and perches on stumps while 

the other one sits and listens to

raven wings beating air

and remembers the truth

of who she really is....