In the wood lives Spirit.
In the stone,
in the pond,
in the bone,
in the blossom
lives Spirit,
And there and
there and there
lives Spirit.

Not magic,
not conjured shades,
not shimmering illusion.

Rather, essences, housed,
but not usurping
the content in which She dwells.

Diamonds gleam will never dim
the golden ring which clasps it.

But how to smell the Spirits scent?
How to hear the Spirits sigh?

How else but by choosing to believe
and by believing, know,
by knowing, see?

Then as we stroll the shaded path
a cool spring mile,
hearing Spirits laughter,
we answer with a smile.