A certain spot in the woods obscures itself for over half the year;
I can see it from my front step,
from my yard,
from my meadow,
from the place where a deck could be in the future.
I plan to spend coffee time on that deck,
breathing the forest air deeply
and trying not to think about mosquitoes
and bundling up warmly to brush away snow and sit,
with my coffee – not strong, hazelnut syrup, double cream –
for as long as I please.
I will look at that spot in the woods and nod to it and lift my coffee cup and listen to it and talk to it and exchange the news of the world.
This tangle of hemlock-on-hemlock obscures itself by dark needle and distance and, on a good mist-rising morning, by holding itself back behind the beaver pond, so that the mist occludes it.
But then the snow falls
and every needle stands out sharp and clear as crystal
The mild and hidden goddess, revealed as shining power for a moment before she shrouds herself again and walks among the Tree People.