“The Stand of Trees, Safe”
Entering this stand of trees safe,
Air and breathing,
Spacious for each of the sentient trees.
I rest my hand on each texture,
The barks, the leaves, the lichen.
Pause and move, touch and saunter safe,
Into the un-knownness of this wood safe,
Feeling my way deeper into my own mist, safe.
That first branch of green welcomes me onto the path,
My path, safe,
Beneath the protecting canopy above, safe.
The many hidden mysteries are here, and
I know that when St. Patrick walked
Through his wood, summoned by the King,
He was surrounded by the forest animals along his way, but to
The king’s men sent to kill Patrick,
The animals appeared as scary, stalwart protectors.
“You don’t mess with these presences!” so off
His killers ran, tossing their weapons as they fled
The field of energy surrounding St. Patrick safe.
So we both are surrounded by presences invisible to us,
But fearfully visible to those who would harm us.
No concealed weapons, Here. All hastily
Dropped their weapons along the path, a clutter
Of bric-a-brac safe,
Here, to wonder who I am now safe,
Here, to follow the threads generously offered by the hidden presences
Of the forest safe,
Here, safe to stumble safe,
Because Here “stumbling always leads home.”*