I would tell you to come to the forest near the blue mountain, but you’re already there.
I would tell you of the strange journey,
Via pathways few of us take (or know about).
I might have once thought about boots and flashy hiking gear,
Of tarps, tents, and lanterns,
But what good would they do us?
I would tell you to prepare your eyes and defenses, but you’re not oblivious.
I would tell of the color palette of birds ranging in size from mice to mammoth.
Furs, feathers, textures, symphonies.
I may have wanted to demonstrate climbing the 700-foot trees,
That tower over deep beds of tree needles and leaves,
But why would I when (and I forget sometimes) you were born already knowing how?
I would tell of the glass ceiling that hovers just above the giant treetops, but you’ll know about it when you get there.
I would explain it isn’t glass, nor water, but that you’ll want to touch it.
I will tell you to jump from the treetop you’ve climbed,
Instructions which have to be passed on from one of us to another of us,
A jump which will feel altogether wrong but you must do.
I will tell you that you won’t fall; you’ll float up through
The ceiling and emerge (on what seems like a lake’s surface) in The City.
That city that one or all of us built long ago.
I would tell you that we will rebuild and restore The City that once was,
That we will tend to its gardens that once were,
That we will infuse light and purpose there again,
But you’ll already know.
You’ll already know
What to do.
Featured Image by Shahab Alizadeh