To be fair, they didn’t promise
the chimpanzees,
and bush elephant sightings
weren’t even in the brochure.
But the tremor in the trees
and trace of manure
drew us into the forest like vagabonds
trailing the lure of incense
through an unattended cathedral door.
.
Haze of winged things and spores
spin in the light filtered
through stain glass canopy,
panoply of ficus and epiphyte
ribboning the roof with a
cacophony of texture,
symbolizing rites we know little of.
.
A choir of turacos haunts balconies above
as we tiptoe down staircases
of writhing roots,
palms grazing fig columns in moss suits woven
with a green yet nameless.
And just ahead, finger-broken bread fruit
crushed on the mud,
excess of the morning’s Eucharist.
.
If not for our guide we might have missed
the significance of the staggered pools
where last night leathery feet pressed
deep in the cool earth.
This morning water blinks back sky,
reflected baptistery of ashen toadstool,
citrine butterfly and red black-pepper berry.
.
Following the river tributary
through this labyrinth of prayer
we emerge in a bare maize field
blinded again by the world of ordinary light.
Our pockets full of crumbs snatched
from under the children’s table,
we begin the walk home, if not healed,
blessed.
Far From My Mountain 