This forest shares its secrets with the wind,
Its whispered acorns; deeply buried prayers.
Where ferns glow green and stretch out spongy limbs,
And lichened rocks are holy altar stairs.
Black beetles genuflect and flash their shells.
Moth’s tattered wings reach out to supplicate.
The breath within the soil gently swells,
And lifts up cantillations to the day.
A tree trunk lays itself in feathered moss,
While rings of ivy lash it to the ground.
The ancient Oak knew nothing of it’s loss,
And wears the vines as Hera wears her crown.
I knew all this when I was still a child,
When God still showed His nature in the wild.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 2:33 PM UTC
This forest shares its secrets with the wind,
Its whispered acorns; deeply buried prayers.
Where ferns glow green and stretch out spongy limbs,
And lichened rocks are holy altar stairs.
Black beetles genuflect and flash their shells.
Moth’s tattered wings reach out to supplicate.
The breath within the soil gently swells,
And lifts up cantillations to the day.
A tree trunk lays itself in feathered moss,
While rings of ivy lash it to the ground.
The ancient Oak knew nothing of it’s loss,
And wears the vines as Hera wears her crown.
I knew all this when I was still a child,
When God still showed His nature in the wild.
Request permission to use this poem