With each death the divine is scattered
across the earth making all things holy.
I remember the feeling of expectancy,
a sacred feeling, come upon me
as Christmas morning moved closer.
And then there are other traditions.
On days when the holiest of people
turn their faces to the gods, others do not,
never thinking about falling to their knees.
Yesterday morning is no more transient
than the preceding morning upon which
eternal happiness is perpetually contingent.
Life is a fountain into which we dip our hands
hoping to find our attention taken towards
something greater than ourselves.
A Thread You Follow 