If the world ends, he will still be here.
Gods are hard to kill, and he is one of the oldest.
He will still roam the forest that sometimes
sheds its leaves into this world, but has its roots
in another. He will still shepherd the wild things,
the fox and the wolf, the rabbit and the deer.
In the silence of a world without human voices,
he will remember how we sang. He likes to hear us
singing. His birds taught us our first songs.
But the Forest God would be much happier if we don’t
destroy the world, if we listen to the song he is still singing,
accompanied by bird and beast and leaf, the song that
rocked our cradle in the earliest of our memories,
a song about gods and humans, animals and plants,
mushrooms and mysteries dancing all together,
the angels dancing, too, and the faeries, and
our ancestors, and our children, and all the stars
and planets, all of us in the eternal spiral dance
that will still go on, only poorer for our absence,
if we try to destroy the world and destroy ourselves.