White fir, you are fine in your frosty coat.
The weight of the season rests
on your branches. Hunker down,
sweet conifer. May I make tea
from your needles?

I hike over rocks and moss and fallen branches.
I hike to the peak and look around. The sky
is so large. Can I transcend here?
Tell me.

I pretend to be a cryptid as I scramble down
over rocks and moss and fallen branches.
I am sweating in my poncho and boots
and shouting lines of poetry
trying to make something
from the intersection
of nature and verse.

I pass by you again, dear tree.
Did you see that lonesome mushroom
there, nestled at your feet?

Harmony Mooney