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?

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