I awake to the patter of rain on the broad leaves
in the forest night,
the exaltations of moss in the milky dark.
The rhythms of forest and sky
cradle my bed in the small dry hollow
where the heart is wide,
where the golden-haired mistress of river song
sleeps by my side.
We are old in a landscape beyond
all right and wrong,
beyond the pursuing of whither and why
and all the mind’s doing.
And the forest drips with the breath of night
and sways with the soft wind’s wooing.
Here we have made our home
in the circle dance beyond all coming and going;
in simple appearance,
without urgency or knowing,
with never a loss and never an accruing,
save of the green world coming into fruit
and ever and ever renewing.
Tonight the wild wood sings of itself,
and even the shadows glisten.
And I curl myself, my bride against my heart,
and listen.