Mistress of the Woods

The understory nourishes her and the hillside.

She lives at the end
of a dead-end road,
high above the valley
on the edge 
of a redwood grove.

She’s an herbalist
a naturalist, and
devout believer 
in all 
she practices.

Her eyes are piercing,
bright and blue,
warm, open, and loving,
but cut quickly through 
nonsense and dishonesty.

Her hair spills down
over her broad shoulders
in long, soft wavey strands 
the color of dewy moist
coastal redwood bark.

The hills behind her house
are steep and alive 
with herbs and roots and
mushrooms and moss,
all at her fingertips.

She forages daily,
barefoot in the woods,
her toes gripping 
the soft earth 
beneath the understory
that nourishes her 
and the hillside.

The plants speak to her 
and she to them,
tacitly, tactilely 
exchanging energy 
and intentions.

Thoughts flow through her
as gently and easily
as the hilltop breeze
sways the trees 
that canopy her home
and absorb the shock of life 
in the valley below. 

Mistress of the woods,
keeper of what’s real,
she’s a modern Epicurean,
pursuing pleasure and 
avoiding pain at will.

Entering her world 
requires you to play by her rules
no exceptions, no excuses,
no bad behavior
for the mistress controls.

Her world is peaceful and quiet.
She solemnly takes stock, 
closely observing but not judging 
those around her, seeking the path
to a collective bliss.