This lapsed Catholic, lapsed Oregon native,
is sometimes hungry for the ground.
I pad my hand into the ashes
of an old growth pine
to paint a cross upon my forehead.
Soft in my hand, a silken
powder, there is dignity
in the aroma of what these
trees have become.
Beside my hand print, I notice a feather
and scores of tracks, osprey tracks in the ashes,
little peace signs freckling the landscape
pungent with resurrection.