Soaked in the smell of wet earth,
the sound of rain upon leaves
at the high crown of the woods.
You have been here for quite some time.

Your skin is soft,
etched into it the detailed life of little creatures,
tattooing a map of their coming and going
underneath your bark.
The color of wood when left to the dirt
becomes slipped with rich brown
or tones of weathered green,
as though touched by an artist.

Oh, to be a branch,
your broken edges so lovingly worn
with time.
Now you creep with strands of moss
lain in pleasant solitude;
restful.

You are woven into the songs that the forest conducts.
Voices of sparrows and crows,
melodied by the hum of the frogs.
Crickets chirp in celebration of you, my dear.

Spirit is the path between seed and root, trunk and leaves.
The luck of picking this evening to look for a friend
has been holy at least.
What a masterful design of fate
that has led you to my wake
so I may say grace for my home in your green kingdom.

Thank any god to be given bright eyes to see,
read the forest in which you are the scripture.
How I do pray that my love is clear as thunder
rolling off the tongue,
more sincere than my own name,
more careful than a hymn.

Divine is the wind, the whistling and rushing and sweeping air.
Divine are the ants, the marching and bustling and working bugs.
Divine is the rain, the falling and dripping and washing rain.
Divine is the stick, the growing and breaking and aging limb.