We were surrounded by a golden wood.
Walking, gazing; in silence we took in the majestic landscape.
What must it have been like to have experienced the Earth, before man tainted it?
The trees surpassed our height by feet and feet, reaching toward the Heavens, reaching; for their Creator.
Do the trees know God? Do the birds sing sweetly, knowing in their bosom that He will provide for them?
Silently we walked, side by side.
Breathing, leaves rustling, water trickling.
This is the real world.
No imitation, no guise, no distraction; this.
Golden leaves fall: some individual, some in groups; down to the forest floor, to live out their last days—shrivel, disintegrate, become one again with the Earth.
We too will become of the Earth someday.
Ashes to ashes, forest floor to forest floor,
Creator will unite once again with Creation.
Will you walk with me once more, in the golden wood?
Will you breath deeply, sweetly, that musk-scented air?
Will you admire the rocks, the streams, the trees?
Only a pastime, but a perfect one.
Surround me in that golden wood,
that I may live my days in perfect peace.