Forest Temple
janine canan
The forests are falling --
they roll down the hills like tears.
And beyond these cemeteries
the last firs draw back, shuddering.
Then deeper I must go to find
that temple where the kinglets chime,
guarded by an elk priest whose beard
flows along fern carpet.
In greeny gold of the first cathedral
Earth grows long and slow.
Through mossy arches blackbirds glide
past thousand-year-old spruces.
High upon a hemlock
the red-crested woodpecker drums.
Kneeling inside Her fragrant heart,
I exhale Her radiant light.
