I make my way, hand held before me

as a protecting staff

parting a path through

the tangle of pedestrians

and underbrush of carriages,

  small dogs

and wayward children

that envelope me in the teeming forest of humanity

  that is my city

How can a forest dweller learn to truly love the trees

Like the thirsty, sun-parched Bedouin

Who greets the lone tree on a hillside

As "brother", gives blessing,

and asks permission for its shade?

To breath together,

And sit,

And truly listen, as though

  there is nothing else that matters at this moment

Because there isn't

I could learn to love the matted jungle

of hopes, dreams and despair,

Hidden past the faces

of these forest dwellers and their monuments

that choke the sky above me

But to be in the desert:

To exchange simple gifts

and tarry a while in the company of another

Precious, though a stranger,

Is to understand what joyous creations we all are.