Poem, A Dream

A Dream

I walk through the woods of my dreams.

Oak trees so big that six men can't reach

around them reach toward the sky.

Squirrels eat acorns at my feet.

Huge antlered deer move among

the shadows, but don't run away.

Gun shots and chainsaws have never

been heard here.

Stalks of wild ginseng reach as high

as a man's waist

and provide shade for goldenseal and

bloodroot--all magical herbs

valued by the forest kings.

One may drink from mountain streams,

pure water,

that has flowed over stones in miles

of underground passages.

The word pollution is not known.

The wind blows through the trees

and whispers, like a spirit in the night, the names

of the ancients; Walking Deer, Brother of the Owl

and One Who Heard the Moon Weep.

Even the largest trees sway gently

as if to bow in reverence

to these names.