March, Mt. Shasta

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Through snow I climb

My trail of no trail,

Follow my Wayfinding Bone

In search of grandmother cedar

Or regal fir with reaching branches,

Worthy. But, a burned out husk,

A black and ragged tower stops me.

No, I argue. Not this travesty

Of a tree that used to be. No.

With resignation I let it draw me

Bow my head in acquiescence,

Not in reverence. I kneel

In the duff, push aside snow

With gloved hands and slab of bark.

From my pack I take candle, shell, rock,

Feather, sage and cedar, bread and water.

I spread a plastic bag for ground cover,

Altar. I remove my clothes, not even sun

To fool my skin, lift my eyes

To this deformity scarred by fire,

A reproach. Uneasiness. What am I to learn

From you? You’ve nothing left,

You’re all used up.

I arrange my offerings, drape

My scarf over head and shoulders,

Loosely. A quiet settles me.

With lighted candle, I burn sage and cedar,

Sway into a chant without words or form,

Give my naked self until I know hesitant kinship

With my tree, naked, burned out, used up.

A crow rackets to a landing

On the uppermost charcoal tip

And fixes me with his eye. I cry

Until I am empty. When I walk

Down the mountain, I know

My shell is all some eyes will see;

To some ears my voice will be offence.

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