In times long past, the builder made
a forest temple in the shade
of tall oaks, maples, locusts fair,
each carved stone an unspoken prayer.

There amongst the autumn whispertrees,
I open the old temple gate with ease
and hear the trees sing psalms of solace,
to partake in this painted place’s promise.

To tarry here with trees well dressed
is where I my newfound faith confess,
communing with colors in tailored hues
and with the sacred scent of life imbued.