Redwood wonderland.

If the Redwoods didn’t provide such
magnificence in their branches
big enough to kill
leaves doubling as umbrellas
a carpet splendor
(moss beneath to spoil the feet) —

if all of this wasn’t here in northern California
on an inspiration of an early Friday afternoon,
there would be solace where the chipmunks are.

Instead, this space finds buried inside squeals
once reserved for boyhood Christmas mornings.

I have located paradise.