poetry & things

This temple

Sword ferns warming

some unfurling toward the sun

deeper green the moss grows softly underfoot

forest fog the breadth of morning breathing

grey, pale lichen clinging

a snow melt creek splashes running

clouds break away to light the day

the shine of mossy flowers sunning

this church it has no walls

no doors to lock nor ticking clocks to read

only of the sacred does this wooded temple sing

and I so humbled bow beneath

resplendent evergreens

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