Isn’t it true… sometimes, in the quiet of a moment, a poem can catch you and walk you somewhere far away — and just hold you there.

The origin of the word, spiritual, means ‘to breathe.’ This poem reminded me how trees are the very conduit to our ability to breathe — and live.

May this poem about one of the treasures of life — take you to that place.

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When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

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— Mary Oliver

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