Juniper Seed

A Poem by Will Falk

You were the sun.

I was a young juniper tree,

twisting myself in circles

to follow you and your sway

across the sky.

I gathered the light

that dripped from you.

I grew thick on your warmth.

I reached and my reach gnarled

with the distance of my desire.

I pushed roots

through the dry darkness

beneath the desert

and my blind quest

somehow yielded water.

I gave you that, too.

I gave you bundles

of tiny, tawny seeds

sunless galaxies

that could only glow

in your setting light.

Lightning lit my longing

and I burst, with the pinyon,

into flames. I gave all of myself,

all of what I had gathered

of you, back to you.

In the ash, my seed survived

and my green desire will sprout

to twist and gnarl again.

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Will Falk is a biophilic activist, author, and attorney. The natural world speaks and poetry is how Will listens. His law practice is devoted to helping Native American communities protect their sacred sites and cultural resources. He is the author of How Dams Fall and When I Set the Sweetgrass Down. You can follow his work at willfalk.org.