Forest Poem
Finding soft ground in my spirit upon which to land
Were I to wander, say, to a country stream,
wade in, water curled and cool about my ankles,
then bend my tired knees, bring my fingertips low,
to feel the gentle song of the current,
would that melody — an angel’s weeping, a fairy’s aria —
sweep straight through me to be lost again to the deaf forest,
or might it, perhaps, find soft ground in my spirit
upon which to land?
Small things, tiny things, happen in the countryside —
little things, minutia, miracles. The yellow crossvine,
remembering its shape in the sunlight, opens its flower,
and this trumpet of petals seems the very herald of wisdom.
Twig by twig, needle by needle, the sprightly warbler knits her nest.
Ah, my eyes grow wide and my heart jumps with laughter,
knowing that I, like the moss and wind and warblers,
belong to the wood, that I too,
am a mass of small marvels.
