Sounding of Moss

Hands squished

into the fabric of moss

Knees squatted

into surrendered prayer

Mind wandered open

to commune with ancient green

My relaxed body waits here

in universal chair,

My silent words of palms, an offering—

to Stillness of moss,

meeting Stillness in me

only then do they find me…

The moss forest responds

with Squirrel approaching,

mouthful of chestnut poems

The moss forest speaks

With invisible Frogs singing,

their praises echoing mine

In my secret waiting

of unknowable Silence

The moss forest answers me

—in crescendo—

with the eyes of an Owl

"Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone, with not a single friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable.

I don't really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds

or hugging the old black oak tree.

I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours.

Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned.

I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses singing.

If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much."

~Mary Oliver