The Canopy
In this green cathedral of shadow and light,
where ancient trunks rise like pillars of prayer,
I find myself lost among the twisted vines,
the air thick with moisture and unseen life.
Here, sorrow grows wild as strangler figs,
wrapping around my ribs until breath comes shallow.
Yet even in this tangle of grief,
orchids bloom purple against the bark—
delicate prayers I almost missed
in my stumbling forward.
Above, a rope appears,
woven from something stronger than hemp,
something I cannot name but recognize.
Still, my hands must reach,
my fingers must close around the rough weave,
my arms must bear the weight
of swinging into uncertain air.
The jungle does not part for me.
I crash through leaves broad as shields,
startling the hidden tucán
whose cry splits the humid quiet
like a blessing I didn't know I needed.
My palms burn from the rope's embrace,
but each inverted arc carries me closer
to something that might be clearing.
At points I rest on thick branches,
feet dangling in the green below,
watching fungus bloom in brilliant orange,
listening to the symphony of insects
weaving their small eternities.
This wilderness that holds my tears
also holds these tiny resurrections—
proof that even here,
in the thick of it all,
beauty insists itself into being.
Another rope appears ahead,
swaying slightly in the breeze
that carries the scent of rain and earth.
I breathe deep, grip tight,
and trust my body to the space between
what was and what might be,
knowing that while the way is given,
swinging forward is mine.
