Moss is a verdant painted gash

on cleftcrack and seam etched into
the stretched fists of boulders that yawn
from beneath the years of deep soft earth.
Roots, older than this newly dry
small creek, rainwashed to a gleam
(like a brand new car in the sudden sun)
bridge the cut with a lacework of live beams.
   In this place, silence is a modern language.
The forest drinks perspiration 
(molecular dedication formations)
and offers a location for participation 
in the resurrection of holy medications.
Skin: a soft porus membrane thin
humming the sound of rich ground
revels in the clear wine of the forest
and speaks through every crying thing.
Sight is only a hardcandy green
stainedglass light that bleeds into
my dirty bluejeans and a sweatsoaked 
bramblethorn torn long sleeved teeshirt.
   In this place, breath is a sacred privilege.
The mountain breathes concentration
while evolution takes up dictation
from conversations between
creation and population.
Somehow the body claims its own
  rhythm and then
  returns to the work that called us
    here; again by name.
      A shimmering 
    smile runs free up my spine
  explodes into the thick air