How I Know Oregon is Home

I know this is home when I see

my soul writ large in the silver nitrate sky

autumn leaf confetti on a wet sidewalk

a collage of flame and gold

sprinkled with droplet worlds

I know this is home when I hear

the forest breathing in the Easter dawn

the sweeping cataract’s roar 

the bird-trill in spring and crow-caw in fall

and God’s hushed presence in the heart of the forest

I know this is home when I feel

rain’s mist on my cheeks

brisk air on November’s eve

my well-watered soul taking root

I know this is home when I smell

  life in loam-fed moss

  renewal in decaying fir-trees

  a thousand-years of springtime in a mountain-born stream

I know this is home when I taste

  ions in the air

  the dark, steaming presence of coffee on a chill morning

  and friendship delivered in a pot of home-made soup

If We Are the Disease

I visited earth's heart yesterday.
Her moss-covered arteries shimmered with golden leaf-lace.
An afternoon visit,
  hushed intimate moments splashed with humanity -
    laughing children, barking dogs,
    jogging women, strolling couples,
    a chattering family taking selfies
  in the strong, thick arms of an ancient, overturned root.

I rested my hand on the naked trunk
of a bark-stripped tree
scarred with initials and hearts.

I love you,
  I said to the wild world.
Do what you must.

If we are the disease, do what you must
to heal your battered soil-fed heart.
You are worth more than all of us.

One thousand years from now,
you will find a way
for the best of who we are
to live on in you.

It won't be
a selfie.