Photo by Matt Cannon on Unsplash

The enclosed portch of our basement apartment in a three-family house. A tricycle turned upside-down. The hum of its spinning wheels, opening me…

 shimmering sunlight across a rippling lake

The wooded path opens to a green hill with memorial stones. A paved road passes a waterfall, its roar reminding me…

rustled leaves in a sudden spring wind

A pull-bar swing in Kingsland Point Park along the shore of the Hudson River. The slap of its tidal current against the rocky outcrop of the point…

flying sparks from a campfire

The Rocky hilltop, the cradling wood of birch and maples, the starry sky on a summer night at Iona Island, beside the Hudson River…

shooting stars as the bald eagles sleep

The swirling winds, the roaring Atlantic, at Tintagel…

Amidst wind and water deep breathing

Anyplace where I’m aware of the Presence, the Fire of love so invisible because its so seen everywhere and nowhere. What use are such distinctions? Be in the place I stand, hear what I hear in the howl or whisper of wind, in the murmer or roar of water. See what I see in a flickering candle or a raging bonfire. Feel what I feel of that I can never truly name, only call. There you’ll find my holy place.

mountain mist

the distant crashing of waves

against the shore

Where will you find holy ground

except in your heart?

for dverse’s Tuesday Poetics: Holy Places, Amaya pubhosting