I stoop to greet you in the woods,
grateful that you didn’t hop away,
and for a while we gaze at each other—
like lovers, I wish, though it is not likely mutual.
I admire your greenness, your stillness, your body
that seems made of all elbows and knees,
yet full of grace. I ponder your being,
being here— the bugs that have fed you,
the fox and the great blue heron you have evaded,
the generations of ancestors who wintered over
in frozen mud for you to be here,
as if you were meant to be here.
I can neither name nor deny
the purpose of your being here
but simply that you are here.
You belong. The woods are yours,
yours is the color of this place,
the brook is yours, the sunlight all yours.
You are, without difficulty, being a frog,
without fear or shame or pride,
simply a frog, here in these dappled woods,
here in this passage of the music in which,
for a few measures, we are in harmony.
In this temple of green and yellow light,
my little yogi, you offer wisdom:
to allow oneself to be meant to be here,
to forsake endeavor, to let go
of having to find or accomplish,
and simply, purely, belong.
We share this cup of sunlight, this moment
that may be mistaken for a million years.
And then we go into our worlds,
bearers, both, of an infinite mystery.

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
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