Six oaks in a druid circle thrust up from sandy soil.
Not so firm a foundation, one would think,
but there they've stood for one hundred years,
twisting and turning with each new tropical wave.
Often, in their branches I hear whispers, late at night
when moonlight branches shadow across my face.
"Come," they say, "let us speak to you in voices;
we have much to tell and no one to listen.
In our branches lie spirits of turtles and doves,
panthers and bears, indians and soldiers, all
who've walked this shore in lives once real as your own.
Come, touch my leaves, feel my bark, lean
against my massive trunks. Sense each pulsing nerve
as life flows upwards and outwards into you.
Dance with ancient rhythmic drums,
sway with pulsing beat of primal urge,
sweat, moan, writhe, relinquish control
to our insistant ubiquitous soul."
In sunlight I wake, hair twisted in elflocks,
body wrapped in knotted sheets,
mind filled with whimsical dreams and antic desires,
beneath these ancient, druid oaks.
And I know
These trees were put here for me,
and I smile.
