Baba Yaga The Wise

They found me
splitting cedar
where the sea fog
chewed at the roots
of the old forest.

The air smelled
of smoke,
salt,
and mushrooms
pushing up
through last year’s leaves.

“Baba,” they said,
“teach us the spiral.

Teach us
how to become.”

The axe stopped.

A raven laughed.

Even my little house
turned one chicken foot
as if it had heard
this question
far too many times.

“The spiral?”

I spat into the moss.

“That is what happens
when everything else
has already been
made right.”

They looked disappointed.

Humans always are
when wisdom
isn’t shiny enough.

So I led them
to a spider’s web,
still jeweled
with morning dew.

“Do you see
the circles?”

They nodded.

“No.”

I shook my head.

“Look again.”

Not the silk.

The spaces.

Each thread
knew exactly
how much tension
it could bear.

Not one strand
reached farther
than it could hold.

Not one knot
asked another
to carry its weight.

That,
little crows,
is the secret.

Not the web.

The measure.

I picked up
a pine cone.

Its scales
curled around each other
like old friends
who knew
when to embrace
and when to let go.

The ocean
kissed the shore
without trying
to become the forest.

The cedar
drank the rain
without swallowing
the river.

The wolf
never envied
the owl.

The salmon
did not curse itself
for flowing upstream.

Only humans
declare war
on their own nature,
then call exhaustion
a spiritual path.

They seek
more knowledge,
more followers,
more healing,
more awakening—

always more—

while the old trees
simply become
exactly
what they are.

I reached
into my apron
and withdrew
a golden key.

It was warm,
though no fire
had touched it.

“This key
opens no lock.”

“It unlocks
your measure.”

The distance
between your fear
and your courage.

Between speaking
and listening.

Between holding on
and holding gently.

Between loving someone
and trying
to own them.

The forest
does not survive
because it grows.

It grows
because everything
belongs
in right relationship.

Remember that.

The spiral
is only
the song
you hear

after the instrument
has finally
been tuned.

Now…

put away
your compass.

Listen instead
for the sound
of the world
when nothing
is trying
to be
anything else.

That—

is where
the golden key
has always fit.