I walk in an afternoon
in a land where bright light is green,
slanting through leaves and leaves.
A friend leads me down these quiet ways;
hushed voices and quiet steps.
A great green canopy,
a wilderness in the middle of a city.
We speak softly in this cathedral of ancient trees,
daring not raise our voices, nor wanting to.
A strangeness—the woods are watching me,
inspecting me, and I hold my breath.
Acceptance? Yes, it is given;
I am welcomed into this sacred place
where the forest gods still speak.
Power is here,
rising from this ancient earth,
and I see strange visions of ancient days
when the forest gods ruled over all.
How strange, how strange to see such things,
city-bred as I am, granted visions of the eldest of trees,
the deepest of northern woods.
Yet I dare to speak, and my friend has also seen.
In olden days, we may have been there,
priest and priestess of the strengthening trees,
of the forest gods and their green-lit realm.
And so they recognize us now
and welcome us home,
their wayward children from days long gone.