Gifts

There are gifts
in this beautiful place
for anyone
who seeks to find them.

In a sacred circle,
a quiet spot
hidden off the path,
a goddess spreads her legs,
waits patiently
for you to light on her
as you recline
back to earth,
eyes to steely sky,
watching a spider
spin a tale
and dreaming what if.

With her blessing
and whispered wisdom
you continue, secret safe,
sudden sunlight and
susurrus of palmettos
ushering you along
past a hollow log,
deep and dark,
where shelf mushrooms
orange as caution
offer themselves
up to you–
which you admire
and decline–
a gift
in the negative.

Oaks and light
and sand
and moss,
the wind tangles your hair.

Who are you to deserve
this touch, this force of life?

The goddess sighs.
You are you,
and this is yours,
because you
are.

So you accept it whole.

Before the end,
you encounter
on the pine-sweet trail,
a hermit scrabbling
across your path,
claws to earth, home on back.
You stop to tell him,
a fellow seeker
in this beautiful place,
thank you.
You reach out a hand
to touch
palm to shell
and feel electric hum
as he regards you calmly
with gentle eyes,
and you swallow back
unexpected tears.
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