A garden of lichen on the tree,
small paradisal zone,
the back of old hands
with the story of labor,
digging and building,
lifting children,
scars of a roughened life.
Moss grows
in the crevices of the bark,
between the highways of the roots.
With my cheek to the ground
I look up through its canopy,
into halls of emerald light,
the chastened dusk of silver rooms,
jewel box of another world,
country of wounds and awakenings.
Earth,
seen from the distance of a star,
small pebble of insignificance,
until,
eyes looking closer,
are suddenly caressed,
given a place
where beauty builds walls,
soars in the rapture of its beams,
by a road
smelling of dust and oil,
cars running over birds,
palisade of gentleness,
country of lichen and moss,
known only by those
who see into the small,
and are invited in.