A MYSTIC IN THE WOODS

Michelangelo saw

figures in blocks

of marble.

Sculpting, for him,

was a kind of

rescue mission,

a freeing 

of prisoners

from rock.

I went walking

in the woods

the other day

and came 

upon a tree.

It was like seeing

a mystic lost

in meditation,

their arms

united inside

large monastic

sleeves, their head

down, while

the universe spun

its magnificent circles

between the bark

of belly and bowed

crown.

I am not Michelangelo,

and the tree

is not 

marble,

so there was 

nothing

to free.

There was only

the contemplation

I was left with:

the universe

is in me 

rooted and ready

to make wider 

and wider rings.