As if it knows

[Hog Butcher]

Wandering through the forest
when the rain trickles
down through the trees,

I come to a clearing
where the ferns grow densely
and what sun there is shines down through.
The sight commands a fallen knee and
begs worship of whatever it is that made
the forest and put me here to see it,
as the ferns glow, wet
in the dim grey light.

But there is nothing worthy of my reverence,
no one or no thing that placed me here
or made what I see
that could I call god or point to and say,
“it is you who are responsible,
thank you;” only a world
throbbing violently with life
that will shrivel up and die,
dragging me down with it,
as if it knows
I will remain thankful to
the end.