Spiritus Loci

In the heart of the woods there’s a spirit that knows what you are
And does not disapprove, but it’s been a few years since you made
A concerted attempt to rekindle your innermost star,

Which unfailingly led you to walk in the numinous shade
Underneath the green canopy woven from maple and birch
Where the breeze in the underbrush whispered, “Do not be afraid.”

All alone with your conscience, on Sundays you called it your church
And confessed your ambitions aloud to the comforting air
You were certain would aid and abet your continual search

For the fugitive bright Shangri-La which was never quite there
When you thought you had found it. On Saturdays, now, you must hie
To the place that had once been reserved for your Sabbath, aware

That the spiritus loci is neither of earth nor of sky,
But of you: an occasional pilgrim reluctant to die.