These trees have a voice, but no throat
from which to sing.
But beneath the forest floor,
among all those secret layers of life,
the mycorrhizae are tuning
their scent, while a choir of needles shifts itself
infinitesimally
to the breaking-in sun.
How the pores along the needle’s spines
open their green alchemy to light,
how, beyond their wordless chorus whispering
in polyphony, Infinity licks up the salty lake
behind the music slipping from my weary eyes–
unbidden, my breath joins the dawn chant.
Jennifer Pratt-Walter is a Crone making her way through the world by noticing the small, simple or overlooked things. She is a freelance harpist, poet, photographer, mother and wife. She lives on a small farm in Vancouver, WA.
