Through the nave of the wood
into the sanctuary; our steps
hushed by leaf-litter, slow as supplicants.
Curtains of silence, hemmed with birdsong, hang
from fan vaulting branches, bare
against a clerestory of sky.
Pale columns rise, beech trunk spires,
polished, cool and smooth as stone.
A stillness here, more profound than prayer,
a waiting deeper still than patience.
The forest, held in balance, holds its breath,
balancing on this one moment
that any moment will dissolve.
Then, the breath exhaled, the prayer spoken,
as each coming breath confirms
the breathless psalm of spring.