Cathedral Ruins

Through the blizzard,
in the tree stand I see the
evergreen spires on hillsides
bear the snow, heavy,
as pagan giants' limbs.
All movement is
stillborn; I hear it
flutter down through the storm.
The cutaway up the ridge
opens up the doors of
an emerald cathedral;
I hide behind a spire and wait,
looking up, looking down.
Cardinals and bishops
are nowhere to be seen, but
Red Squirrels take shelter
and mockingly throw
incense from the pines;
even though I only hear
them move, and can rarely see.
When I descend from the tree,
the wind at my back
will push me past spires fallen
into the narrow paths.
Snow will muffle
my every footstep.
But I stop every few
and look back.
Lot’s wife be damned.
Though I will not go
that way, I feel, for now,
there is no harm,
every once in a while,
in looking back.