Rousing the Sleeping Poet

No dolphin dreams

or parrots in the dogwood

to light the fires.


Only a west wind,

scent of seacoast and Redwood. . .

to rouse the Poet.

I’m headed to California. I’m going to meet the giant Redwood Trees. I’m going to wander among them, to sleep in their ancient, moist shelter. Once, among the Douglas Fir they whispered to me “Trees were the first poets”.  Once, a friend told me she slept under old pinon and heard the stories of the earth. I’m going to hear the stories trees know, to listen to their poems. I’ll be back


About wrensong

I am a poet who collects stones. I am a wanderer of creek beds and forests, canyons and high desert who, coming home, sometimes finds words to tell the story. I am a companion with others in the search for Deep, Wild Soul. I shape containers in time and space for others to come together to write, to tell their stories, to hold each other in the telling. I am a grandmother and the companion of a cat named Alaya. I often travel out into open country with a man who calls himself Dunewalker who has hung his hammock in my heart.
This entry was posted in A River of Stones, aros, Poetry, Small Stones, The River, Trees. Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Rousing the Sleeping Poet

  1. seedbud says:

    I too am a writer of stones. And a native of California who now resides in the east. I look forward to hearing the stories the trees tell you.

  2. sounds beautiful! come back refreshed with new stories to tell…

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