I came across this poem written by an otherwordly poety, Mary Oliver,
and I thought you'd enjoy it.

Sleeping in the Forest.

I thought the earth
remebered me, she
took me back so tenderly, arranging
her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds. I slept
as never before, a stone
on the riverbed, nothing
between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated
light as moths among the branches
of perfect trees. All night
I heard the small kingdoms breathing
around me, the insects, and the birds
who do their work in the darkness. All night
I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling
with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Chakros, in the year 62 MA.