Behind us, the city’s bounty of smoke

And dust, and we come to this sanctuary ready

To shed our burdens of worry and grime.

Foot of mountain beside us, cloud-hover

On hill crest: The Deity, the Spirit watches over

Us: What names we have for Benevolence

Do not matter in this green silence. We converse

In hushed voices. We address within and about

Us the Sylvan Ancient One, Father of the Stars

Unseen in this mild noon, Caretaker of the Glade,

Guardian of Our Original History, Babaylan

Of Our Sacred Wood, resident in the field of our

Multifarious faiths. Our newfound trust

In luxuriant leaf, deep root, spreading branches

Guides us through our own labyrinths:

Upright trunks of coconut casting their

Elongating shadows on the plush rug

Of carabao grass, slender beings whose crowns

Are bursts of perhaps-emerald—my own

Imagined pyrotechnics of steadfast growth

Abiding in bud, stem, frond, whorl, blossom;

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