No dolphin dreams
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