In the deep woods near,
The trees are poets;
They write their rustling
Lines against a paper sky --
Invited to their mystic house
I am brought to life,
        Embraced and entwined
        Like a prodigal child
                 Forgiven everything --

The forest floor is cool and still
Yet below, the earth is humming
Sweet-scented and loamy
Pulling at some memory that
        Beats ancient in me --

Such tempo'd spells sing
        Among the ferns here:

        Beckoning