Hungry for communion with the trees,
I entered the Hall of Mosses.
A lone bird, silent, glided
over the bracken pond.
I entered the sanctuary, silent,
feeling the reverence therein,
and soon veered into the maple grove
where I stood for a silent hour
watching in awe as the slanting sunlight
took the ancient moss-draped trees,
drapery slipping to the ground
as though, like me, stunned into worship.
One tiny fern, attached to one of three
grey-green giants, flickering not ecclesial red
but brightest green, a sanctuary lamp glowing
in a cathedral more silent than Chartres.
Silence wrapped around me, plunged deep
into my heart, as nature’s sacred wafer ate me
just as I had eaten it, a silent eucharistia, a legacy
of light and growth and tree, now me.