Shrine
By Pattiann Rogers
I call this a sacred place, thus build
high arches and leaf-filled alcoves
of rooted hardwood around it, yew,
lingonberry, a floor of black oak
leaves, white sand in humus, lichen
shreds, half hickory shells, paper pea
wings and twig splinters, sucking
ants, fungus beetles moving like shards
of rotting woodbark with legs.
And I arrange shadows here, easing
into themselves and back out again
between flat flowers of torn light,
chickadee-flight fragments of sun
that shift with wind.
I add bushtits prying and gleaning
in the brush, and the passing-through
of one rattle box moth, the zing
and chip of scritching rodent with seed,
a clinking of early spring peepers
signaling like the ritual bells
of rain monks, and a fragrance of putrid
fish heads, mud moss, river-rotting
logs and turtle moisture lingering
like incense rising up from the hollow.
I fix in this place one cross: latitude
against longitude. A second cross: morning
at juncture with moonset. And a third: March
bisected by testimony.
All of this I construct to denote
and contain the sacred that then must dwell here,
possessing of itself alone neither name
nor description nor chorus nor scent, nor ever
any prayer, nor ever any plea.
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As predicted, Valentine's Day was a snow day, so instead of lunch out with my beloved
Also as predicted, we had a fairly low-key Valentine's Day but I got the most wonderful present! I had mentioned to
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