What kind of time are these

There are some few who will meet you there
in that place where judgement has fallen away
There are some few who will meet you there
in that place unknowable until the veil drops from your eyes
where questions have more meaning than answers ever will
There are some few waiting for you
holding the mystery in all its magical beauty for you to see a new
There are some few who will met you there
holding out cupped leaves in their hands to catch your tears
There are some few who will meet you there
feeding a fire for you to sit and be warmed by

These are the best of times and the worst of times
These are troubled times and times of transformation
As the old takes it leave and the new is coming into view
May we always speak in the language of trees.

Adrienne Rich: What Kind of Times Are These

There’s a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.

I’ve walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don’t be fooled
this isn’t a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.

I won’t tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won’t tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it’s necessary
to talk about trees.