In wilderness the gods are sought
exiled from convention
and the hubris of spreadsheets
and five year plans.
In wilderness all is laid plain
and flat. The air is lowly let out;
the ego slowly deflates.
Slowly under Red Pines
and on their needled bed.
In wilderness the armor
of knowledge and the swords
inherited in books of theology
that dare to have a final page.
Are gently discarded
as foolish weapons in a midget war
while under these Red Pines
and on their needled bed.
In wilderness the sanctuary
of pews and plastic flowers
reminds me of a waiting room
under unsure fluorescent lights
and last February’s Men’s Health.
In wilderness I live and move
and am proportionally present
in these Pines with scales
and red I walk across
their needled bed.
In wilderness I am greeted
in fellowship time by
this Pine who has declined
her name tag. In gladness
and joy and a look so straight
these Red Pines
and on their needled bed.
In wilderness I am wrecked –
destroyed for future service.
Conscientiously I must now object
while passing through these needles
my eye has seen Red Pines
and climbed them to the sky.