There are old stumps here,
relics of giants who used to
dot this neglected woodland.
And roads that have filled
in with trout-lilies and dwarf ginseng
and mayapples that
have spilled over from
the forest floor on either side,
a carpet as far as the eye can see.
Wood thrush and catbirds
have arrived, their songs the
blessing and benediction
of the day,
now joining the towhees
and house wrens
who arrived, and
staked out territory,
some days ago.
Set amid surrounding houses
and farms,
this old patch of woods is all
that remains of what once was,
an ancient-feeling sacred space,
an invitation into awe,
this secret garden, not made
by human hands.
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