Forest feels like second skin by now,

beam upon beam raised in self-defence.

Logging permits don’t pass easily –

deforestation is distinctly painful.

But when pines part,

oxygen stirs,

canopy is cut,

there You are,

breaking through boughs,

 illuminating dark and stained cells,

ushering in daylight

where angels feared to tread.

And as dead branches fall,

tentacles tremble in triumph;

sap stirs

and green grows

and oh, the grace

of breaking through…