Holy days, still moments, stand sacred
In thin veils spanning worlds.
When I move inside the oak crater,
A shell left when this earth’s branches
Separated from roots; new forms born.
I’m mindful of a mountain of acorns
As monuments, like memories, living on.
This existence we cling to might
Be less precious than rose scent,
Than the reality of rainbows, and visits
Loved ones pay through the mind’s eye.
Let’s not close the gracious veil:
Missing, the well-travelled tear, sighs.
Vestiges of rose return with secrets,
Whispering mysteries, listen, draw near