The woods never yawned

at the end of my stories

The streams never laughed

when I stuttered in haste

The mountains stood firm

when I lost my last footing

The sky understanding

in joy or disgrace 

These natural things

forever behold me

Forgiving my weakness

rewarding my nerve

Their arms reaching out

through each change of the season

Pulling me onward

— my voice undeterred

(The New Room: March, 2025)