Holding Green

After  a week of small delicate winds we have moved into stillness.  In this quietness the trees are holding green, deeply sap with the barest flash of other.  No need for a calendar to tell me what's coming -  the sudden importance of the woodpile speaking its volumes, birdsong replaced by the bark of birdspacking- but for now all is green.

Somehow this color has entered the realm of the holy for me.  I embrace and am embraced in turn.  As a child my grandfather, Claude, took me to a logger's church deep in the woods.  Stretched out under the noble pines were ten orderly rows of benches split by an aisle, crowned with a pulpit.  Until this very moment, some fifty years later, I have never wondered what sermon that  pulpit spoke, I had no need.  The sense of immediate and living grace was overwhelming.  Wordless, without dogma,  the trees canopying green overhead and the grass carpeting green underneath were sufficient unto themselves.

That was the beginning.  Of green as a holiness, the deep soothing grace of green.  Holding Green.