The Pines
I come down
To the quiet place,
My hushed cathedral,
Secluded beneath the pines
Where silent boughs
Let me rest.
I see the sun stretch
Golden ropes,
Tying back the limbs
Of old giants,
Trying to reach me.
The pines heave their incense,
The grass moves in whispers
Revealing muted storms ahead.
Rough wood scuffs
The chanting zephyr,
Soft rains drip down
Their jagged edge,
Like sacred streams of sweat,
Melting me to moss.
They hear my echoes,
My prayer.
I come down
To the quiet place,
My hushed cathedral,
Secluded beneath the pines
Where silent boughs
Let me rest.
I see the sun stretch
Golden ropes,
Tying back the limbs
Of old giants,
Trying to reach me.
The pines heave their incense,
The grass moves in whispers
Revealing muted storms ahead.
Rough wood scuffs
The chanting zephyr,
Soft rains drip down
Their jagged edge,
Like sacred streams of sweat,
Melting me to moss.
They hear my echoes,
My prayer.