Mangrove Cathedral

We came out of the mangrove forest

Like weary travelers from the mountain top

But our paddles were salty from the sea.

Our pilgrimage took us to lost places,

Close places, dark places. We battled

The current beneath the boat and our map

Sailed off underwater.

Emerging, fawnlike, from the forest,

Our arms sore from stroking the ocean like

A beast in need of soothing, the man to whom

We returned the kayak pulled the nose close to shore.

“How was the cathedral?” he asked, I’m not certain,

But it echoes in my ears years later.

We mumbled our thanks for the lessons from the

Brackish roots and the tugging branches, our

Surroundings shadowed guides on the journey.

Our supplication to the sea to safely return us home

Still meant we left behind speech and took up wonder

All along the briny banks. Slicing the surface with

Plastic paddles, we were now past the liminal stasis of the

Grove’s golden garden.

The only offering to leave at the altar of the mangroves

Was lost time, the most precious gift the Magi never

Brought.