Poetry inspires our imagination and gives words to
our most intimate experiences with nature,
thereby deepening our connection to those experiences.
Stand still. The trees ahead and the bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
Entering the Forest
Sooner or later, we have to do this.
Walk into the dark tangle
Of our growth. Trace the footmarks
overgrown now with moss.
Honor the losses and start digging.
Stories buried inside old bones
beg telling. Gnaw at the marrow and
be nourished. Let the Crone speak.
She will pick those bones clean
and place them in a sweetgrass basket.
Take what she gives. Under cathedral
trees, make your own altar. Give blessings.
Look up, then down. You see
white stones, white bones
fresh grass and a snail
inching toward you saying,
You are almost among us,
stand still, grow roots.
To Look at Any Thing
To look at any thing,
If you would know that thing,
You must look at it long:
To look at this green and say,
"I have seen spring in these
Woods," will not do - you must
Be the thing you see:
You must be the dark snakes of
Stems and ferny plumes of leaves,
You must enter in
To the small silences between
You must take your time
And touch the very peace
They issue from.
~ John Moffitt ~