by Paul J. Willis
Dogwood blossoms mount into the sunshine
as if they were creators of light,
as if the air were only blue
because of them, as if the pale
cinnamon of sequoia bark were like
the moon, a borrowed glow.
If understory, the story under
all things else, stair-stepping
into sky like angels on a green-leafed ladder.
There, there, and even there—
as friend with friend, taking us upward,
in heaven as it is on earth.
—Sequoia National Park