for Sheila

The Trees Protect Me

overhead,
surrounding,
all around,
the ubiquitous bark reminding,
the trees protect me

quiet sentries
standing at attention
for centuries

with you,
i am no longer afraid of the dark

within you,
your moonlight branch shadows
place tiger stripes upon my skin

intrepid now,
i stalk these woods,
a carnivore devouring
the flesh of such catholic fears

proud,
i prowl
this forest primeval

in your seasons
i have died and been reborn,
have died and been reborn,
died and been reborn
into a continuum of reincarnation
in which i am more alive than ever

a hundred different lives i've lived
in a single room,
with a window on a world of
could have, should have, would have,
watching the rain's gentle pulse upon the maples' leaf umbrellas,
my heart beating to the rhythm of spring's bud through autumn's fall,
in this artist's den of soft pine walls and hardwood floors

hand, one with brush

brush, one with palette

slow starts the sweep,
conducting a symphony of tonewood colors
across a stretch of canvas,
cornering and carving the grey light of a timber cathedral,

a sacristy sheltering the pulp of a bible, the grain of a cross

and so paint this church of trees,
my sanctuary

painting by john e. maguire