by Josh Bishop
In a coppice of aspen, their trunks silver-white,
bright beams of splendent sunlight like spearshafts in flight
pierce down through a ceiling of branches. The leaves
as a yellow-green snow falling soft in the breeze
drift to earth, and they flash as they turn in the sun.
I swear — swear to God! — that the leaves of Lothlorien
pale when compared to this common, anonymous
wood; the Fields of Elysium, set next to this,
cannot be nearer to heaven; if Avalon
ever had gardens, their beauty’d be counted as none
by any who’ve had the grand fortune to stand in
this spinney. No wonder the ancient pagans
built altars to worship the gods in these spaces
where numina stoop to ordain common places.