A Forest Grows

A forest grows in the quiet still center of my soul. There are pine trees and firs, there are spruces and aspens. The wind sighs in the topmost branches and punctuates the sound with the papery rattle of aspen leaves. On the ground the air is quieter, perfumed by the sunny sweet vanilla smell of ancient ponderosas and decaying granite. The forest floor is pine needles laid down in thick carpets, broken by wild rose and geranium and decorated with the dark green leaves and bright red berries of kinnikinick. A brook winds through, silvery clear and sweet, burbling between grottoes lined with willow and long grasses. It is not quiet, but peaceful. And when I start twisting and fretting with worry, I breathe deep, picture this place, and start again.