Sacred Grove

The druids, they say, danced in the moonlight
in circles of great trees, shadowy walls
to hold in the gods, like a living gaol,
captive celebrants whose only opportunity

to see the greater world was to enter the soul
in tiny sparks, and leave, scattered,
yet fiery, ready to burn all they touched
to ash, and fall like black snow.

Why then do you dance?
What brings you to this grove,
now white with snow, a godless place,
it’s fire carried to foreign lands,

where each spark, lost
without it’s sisters, sizzled for one bright moment,
and died.

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Don’t ask me what it means. It just erupted after seeing the grove in the pictures. Poems do that some times.

The picture was taken at the Southern Vermont Arts Center earlier today. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom