When a complex system is far from equilibrium, small islands of coherence in a sea of chaos have the capacity to shift the entire system to a higher order.

Ilya Prigogine

Light angles through trees pointing
triangularly toward clouds, mimicking
the mountain: sentinels, brothers massed,
limbs fluttering in air sprinting down the slope.

The tiniest moss clings to soil
created by fallen evergreen needles.
Earthy mushroom musk floats upward,
overlaid by wintergreen perfume.

I don’t know how to call the trees
by their names but they don’t mind –
they wink as I pass, bending a branch
in recognition, acknowledging

our connection, even though I am blue
in my down jacket, our differences
forgotten in our mutual love of sunlight.
A whispered wind blows in sideways,

and the trees lift the breeze
from the ground, brush it aloft,
higher and higher until clouds
catch it and toss it back among snowdrifts.

I think trees, secure in their rootedness,
are not envious of my feet and knees
clambering through the world’s chaos,
striding into commotion, disarray,

strata dislocating and deforming,
cohesion corrupted, squalls
at my back as I barrel across facades.
I wish to grow roots into the earth,

find stolid joy in a forest clasping
the mountainside, wrap a mantle
to hug me tight, a mother’s embrace,
in a nest of pine-infused peace.