Forest Bathing

by KRISTEN STABY REMBOLD

The foreground’s beech-blurred.
I squint to read the tree bark alphabet.

Climbing up a woodland ridge, I hear
people speaking, maybe arguing. 

It’s only two Canada geese  
harrying a third away. 

Water swirls in the reservoir below: water and mud.  
A great blue heron speaks as he flaps overhead.  

We are small in a grove of mountain laurels.  

Flowers surround us, all lifted, all in bud,
a few clusters just opening.

We chuff up the path, mindful of ticks,
arms held close to our sides, 

yet I feel a longing to relax and let
branches brush, to feel at one with them.

The wind weaves past, whispering my name,
and my own voice comes, alive and urgent.