Nearly

Indian Pipe (a flower, not a mushroom), in the forests of Painted Post.

Reckoned they might've gone
out of season, and I had
nearly missed finding them.
Over time it seems, they
didn't grow in the same place
--nearly but not exact--
as the summer before,
although always beneath
the limbs of tall hemlocks.

Then under a full moon's light
waiting for a young hound
to ferret a track out,
They glowed in my headlamp's
beam, like ghostly fingers
reaching through the rich earth,
perhaps saying hello--
maybe a reckoning.
Hard saying, for certain.

But in the forest dark
in the presence of
a young hound and hemlocks
beneath a silver moon--
the peace of discovery.
An absence of malice.
Finding something far more.
Nearly missing a much
greater meaning whispered.

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