Bathing, in the way something that 
still means nothing can really exist
 
with such tangible clarity. 
Morning mist so faint it doesn’t 
 

dampen your clothes also holds
enough moisture to feed the trees.
 
            The mushroom garden 
            logs in the wet glowing dawn
            inoculated
 
The way the forest is nowhere but now.
Deep mercurial light becomes ours 
 
to both partake of and be consumed in.
Thunderous crashing unheard, far away,
 
can then become a tale of safe glow.
Slant illuminate, a blaze of soft lightning.
 
             Pinhole cameras 
            scatter landscapes of the sky
            resting on the stones 
 
Or the cautious way into a gladed clearing
guides into that self-same breathing sky
 
gently resting on the grass, reaching into
verdant intoxicated small shade seeking
 
deeper, ever deeper. Light grazes ground,
being becomes breath, sky, self and stone.