Piece of Turf

Walking the soggy pine
paths on this holy hill
where horizon sits just above
flowing water between
two lakes surrounded by
an over-soaked sponge of
sand and clay,

the altar stands sentinel
in foreground, and a freshly white-
washed cross calls my
heart home.

My visits are refreshing,
always.

A look back reveals
sunshine, birds perched,
watching me,
the distance familiar clack
of train cars lumbering to mill.

My ears
gather bird songs
soft as piano
drums high above
wind whispers.

This sacred ground is
home to children’s summer
songs, warm winter
word gatherings.


Eva Guillot
Feb. 3, 2007