Walking with my Sisters, silently on the downy path
In the well of the Goddess, insulated by the mists and fog that enshroud the foothills and adorn with webs
We step, each step a conversation with Her
Pausing to note a green detail, a sprouting nut,
to stroke Gaia’s Cloak of moss on her sacred tree trunks
Looking up, I am taken by the conjoining branches overhead that weave four trees into
one protective canopy, fingers interlaced, woven with intricate solidarity.
There is a stump awaiting me at the base of a broad oak, a seat for meditation,
and I am surprised by the cushion of my lean upon her trunk.
My bare feet find the dense, cold mud and I close my eyes
in sweet respite,