Growing Orbits

I don’t know what lies beyond these trees.
No clear path in sight.
I know what’s behind me, what brought me here 
and how long I have waited, begged to emerge.

There are no mirrors in this forest, 
so I can’t even see the me who wants to travel.
Thick leaves obscure where I might go.
Uncertain, I stand, I sit, I slumber into deep sleeps,
dream of endless oceans where I can see forever,
days and days riding hypnotic waves of peace.

I wake to find I am still in the same trees
that have been watching me for moons and moons 
tired of me I’m sure, they suggest I take one small step.
I pause, seeking a slender but sure trail that will take me where I want to go.

“Where is that?” asks a tree.
“I don’t know,” I reply, “I thought you might have a suggestion.”
“I don’t travel,” the tree replies. 
Freshly, I think.

Still my legs want more,
can’t still any longer.
So they go, off trail, bending around brachial pinyons, 
walking wide of wandering juniper, 
stepping over sharp cactus and the stories of ancient people.

Tired, I see a shady spot beneath the bough of a great broad juniper.
I rest with water and my wonderings, taking stock of how far I have come
when it whispers, “Nice to see you again.”