These trees are my friends,
their branches keep my skin out of the sun.
Malia walks across the grass with light steps;
the music-note blanket flutters behind her.
She stands between two large trees,
looks back at me, and then waves for me to follow.
Through the two trees
a path winds down a bank of soft earth, longleaf ferns
and red, polka-dot mushrooms growing along the stones.
Malia walks barefoot, the bottom of the blanket gathering
up pieces of fern and specks of dirt
until it’s filthy.
Jordan and I explored forests,
but I’ve never been here,
too private, too far,
where the trees seem bigger
than any trees I’ve seen before.
Malia says, They’re old,
very old.
The oldest trees in the West.
I’ve always been able to feel the trees,
even when I was little.
How? I ask. She looks at me
with half her face.
They tell me.
They are the oldest trees
and they have LOTS to say
about all kinds of things.