Even pierced

by our cement daggers

the pulse of its might

beats us inner and breathless

gifting dreams to us all:

the righteous, the wicked,

the caring, the reckless.

Not even the poet

can pen himself blameless.

 

There are snow-ridden pines

and majestic waterfalls

there are rock garden lupines

and countless bird calls

All have a season

under these vertical walls.

 

It’s a mineral shrine

for our earth mother

with granitic guards

and a place to gather

so we may seek forgiveness

under her sweet warm cover

​