The Grove

In a park trampled by a million a day, depressions are made against concrete towards a giant named for a general.  But no one goes to that other grove. If it goes unnamed, will it stay forever?  The ground is soft, the path tangled and narrow.  Walking single file we avoid a precipitous fate.  Fiddleheads uncoil fronds that creep through sleeves and brush scapulae.  Each inhalation moistens pharynx, then thorax.  The winding goes on, and on, and on.  Swollen ankles begin to deceive a once compelling stride.  Resolute in wonder, feet are transcended from stone to stone, and finally up a moon-sized rock.  Out we look, there is no sign between crevice and a green-scaped expanse.  Greg’s eyes are kind, his temples beaded, his unshaven smile promises: “Just another mile…., or two, O.K., perhaps three at most. A grove is just over there,” his finger arcs a panorama of trees, sage, and rock.  I think I hear my uncle telepathically, “But, aren’t we happy up here, on top of everything sacred?” With urgency, shaking Coppertone, my husband urges us on: “Come on, let’s go!”  We mobilize: the tiny, the wobbly-- the swollen.  A dizzying slope, conifers appear and widen as we descend.  We slip further and further into the Cretaceous-- growing smaller, and smaller, and then we cease to exist.  The Sequoia surrounds us, secludes, and seduces.  We clench our palms into her fir finding solace. Deeply we sink into needles that leave no puncture.  A gentle giant unveils her family, to ours. 

A primeval grove, without rode goes unnoticed. Will she remain to receive a visit by my children’s children? If more find her, might they retrace steps to their humanity? Or, should we hide her, dust off our foot prints, and take a different pathway home-- to keep her safe?  Unsure, I name her "Home" and tip-toe back to the highway.