Looking ominous.
I smell its age.
Peeking from a crack
In the dirt–
A red poppy.
Without these trees,
this stream, this wind–
My old life.
Redwood trees drop
Their piney scent.
My head swells.
This ocean is new,
Green like glass,
green, like me.
The redwoods reach
as far as me
and stop.
Three paths
lead to tranquility
I took them all.
Lit from within
as flames lick my knees,
my husband at night.
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