The Wood

I'm not a holy man, but I've prayed in grottos and garden groves at night under pregnant and aborting moons. I surrounded myself with mysteries, with magic. Winds whispered enchantments in my ears with the rustling of Autumn leaves and, when it was over, my prayers would follow me into the streets and stalk me until I was too tired to fear them anymore.
I returned to the wood one gray morning, to the groves where I prayed, and watched the milk drip from boughs in grooves of stale bark. The winds still whispered their enchantments to me. I'm not a holy man, but, in the calm and heart of the wood, I pray.

[Note: "The Wood" was first appeared in "Melting Trees Review" in Autumn 1996.]