a grace of cedars

January Bluebird

Take my hand
lets walk the soft path
under the old cedar trees

They are sacred, these mages, these venerable timbers,
hallowed by the desert mothers
and tiny finches dancing in their boughs
and pale angels who sing with them at dawn.

Ancient and holy, they accept your shallow breathing
and extend their grace to you
in emanation, ripe with incense.

Breathe deeply this exhalation, this glory,
as these solstice trees inhale your breath.
An offering, an honor, an acceptance,
a giving and a receiving
until your blood flows
with a resinous scent
purified by the synchronicity of spirit,
a grace of cedars.

dove