The Forest Rejoices

Did you know that

the forest is rejoicing in you?

On the forest floor, this June,

Galax is blooming,

tall white candles lining the path

where you walk.

The rain, the plentiful blessed rain

has filled each lake and stream

and draped each stone and hard place

with brilliant green mosses,

each stone a small village of miniature trees,

small hopes.

For you, the air is cold and sweet,

redolent of the ferment of humus,

the lush bed of new life laid before you.

For you, the soft breeze on your tired skin

cleanses you of all your worries,

and overhead, fit for any blushing bride,

mountain laurel in impossible numbers

bloom in your lover’s bower.

Loving you! Loving you!

Loving your being, breathing with you,

exhaling with each of your inhalations.

She welcomes and embraces each cell you offer here.

In the cold recesses of the wild deep cataracts

that pour out your welcome, layer upon layer,

the sun breaks through in rays, brilliant yellow-green.

She pours out her joy, yes,

she crashes into the black pools,

just for the joy of being here,

just for the joy of you.

Annelinde Metzner copyright June 14, 2009

Holle

Holle

The hard wind tearing through the Nantahala Forest

is the big swift hand of Grandmother,

getting crumbs off the table, thoughtlessly,

readying for the next thing, washing clothes or serving soup.

In the hollow, under the cold wind, you are the crumb!

You may like it here, but you’re gone!

Loud and long the fierce winds howl through the deep forest.

She brushes Her hand, and ancient oaks crash, obedient to Her will.

The Rhododendron stands patient through eons and eons,

accustomed to the Grandmother’s whims.

Her brown and mossy stems meet and turn exquisitely,

solid, rooted, yet reaching for air,

a ballet on the brown forest floor.

Her leathery broad leaves are good for all winter,

each whorl of leaves a brilliant, fleeting thought.

They call this Rhododendron Hell:

Hell, Holle, the Holy, the One Who Lives Death.

Plants and animals die here, ecstatic

to feed Her, to become the next thing.

I, too, would die for Her, here at Her feet in the Nantahala Forest.

“Guten abend, guten Nacht,” sings Grandmother, 

tucking me in as I dissolve into nutriment.

Here at Holle’s side, Her perfect whorls elegant,

I’d wash into dirt at the first icy rain, rejoin the family of all being,

sing the green songs of the ages.

Fierce winds tear through here, uprooting oaks.

I sleep at Her feet until whenever She needs me.

Annelinde Metzner  copyright 1998