It’s dense, this place. It seems to close itself
To all who will not listen. Forest grips
And lake lets go, but there’s no easy way
To fathom depths of ice-hard silence here.
The smile recedes, the tightened lips retain
The secret still. You can’t belong – and yet
Some want you to. Old Luther’s claim seems firm
But underneath conventicle is strong,
Byzantine gilded incense drifts. And still
The shaman’s healing, sauna-dark, persists.
The fierce reserve encloses, captures soul
And meets the other, mystified and mute.
And muffling snow emits its heat and light –
And guests who love you shiver at your might.