My father, when he’s here with me,
regards these wooded trails and hills
more sacred than a church can be.
He loves the prayer of wind in trees;
he lives the peace the sound instills.
I seek him here when I’m alone
and time affords no healing balm.
He brought me here before I’d grown
and taught me how the things he’d shown
could give me shelter, joy, and calm.
In trees, he sees cathedral spires;
in streams, his holy waters flow;
in birds, he hears angelic choirs;
in dirt, he finds what he requires:
It’s this he wanted me to know.
His meanings follow me apace:
The mesic soil that births the ferns
provides the final resting place
and grants to him amazing grace.
For more of him, my spirit yearns.