I go to the woods to talk to God,
Where the pillars of tree bend kindly,
And the branches are whispering sweet
Secrets between themselves. Somewhere
There is the song of a waterfall, rolling
Out her linens over and over to dry
(Which they never do, of course).

I go to the woods and speak to the rabbit,
The little white courier who scatters, who
Falls apart at my greeting. Who can blame
Him? I am a large, lumbering monster, not
Unlike a tree, not unlike a bear, not wanting
To harm, but somehow stirring up great fear
In every soft and tiny creature—even myself.

I go to the woods to pray. To ask why it is
That I am never closer to God than when
I go to the woods. Each winter I am broken.
And when the snow falls (and it always falls,
As we all do, at some time), it is soft, and it is
Reverent. It is not unlike crying. And somehow
It is filling the cracks of the conifers with light.