Fearful that nature will not survive us,
I am lured to the undulating floor
of a cathedral of trees,  
the russet canopy a colander straining
sun rays, allowing light to drip through
and announce the morning in earnest.

One sapling bullies its way into belonging;
others observe with patience, no judgment.
Nursing logs, the altars for rituals,
offer comfort and sustenance
to congregants unsure of prayer.
They gather by need, by awe, by chance, 
stunned by rainbow streaks of lichen
spattered on these maternal platforms
from a divine bucket of paint.
 
No choir, no organ—trees tune the winter wind,
create a symphony of motion,
movements with no baton,
orchestrated by grass roots. 
 
I focus on the intricate lace connecting
trees in the morning brilliance,
the dewy vision a web
woven by a vacant landlord.
 
Leaving the forest, I see a sky
so thick with blue it seems
smeared on with finger paints.
My fears allayed, my hope restored,
I linger on the path that takes
the long way home.

Behind the Verse: Evie Groch Discusses ‘Uncertain Prayer