Green Ribs Of Poetry Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

I worship this green cathedral of pine
beneath a dome of wooden colonnades,
my own sacred temple and holy shrine
above restless valley and open glades.
A river unfolds with infinite grace.
Blue ink spills into the palm of my hand;
and poems are born in this holy place,
in the glistening ribs of timberland.
I merge as one with the mid-morning air
whose fingers caress the soft scalp of grass.
The sun is a gleaming, golden affair
sparked like a bright light off a mirrored glass.
There is no other place I'd rather be
than rooted in green ribs of poetry.