That is what they call them,
Those celestial beings of the forest
Frozen in acts of worship.
I saw one, in a shaded
Grove one rare morning,
A Fir I think, in full flight,
It’s crown of Salal bursting out
In every direction, a regalia
Of roots, mosses, and trialing
Blackberry, cascading down
Its dark red robes, as the light
Played off the dew beads still
Trapped in the Huckleberry
Branches spreading, like wings
Overhead. This is the only saint
I will ever need
And I pray accordingly.
Isn’t this how we all hope to be in death?
To go and leave something useful,
To let a little more light in,
So that others can rise.
