Trying to mirror some Robert Frost and William Wordsworth here.
Amongst the back trails of golden and darkling woods
held secret a room of pale blue light
humming against the skin of brush and lichen.
There is a stillness here.
The wind rests on its knees before passing on.
Insects mill around the foot of a
white dead oak.
What thanks is given to this oak,
that with its sacrifice let in the sky
to dip his mouth across the flesh
of the Earth
as all her wilder creatures - even I -
stand and hold our breath?