If we were children,

There would be fairies

Dancing in the filtered sunlight,

Dipping their tiny feet

In the still pool.

But we are grown now.

Our boots, heavy, press

Against the forest floor.

 

Our daughter tells us,

There, among scented firs,

Of fear, shame, and anger.

It is the right place

To speak of these things.

I know because she has chosen it.

Also, we need all those roots

To hold us steady

As the earth exhales.