laura ferrario

This Holy Place

laura ferrario
 

The thrust of a leaf through the brown-crusted grass,
a shudder of wind through a sheer mountain pass,
coyotes that howl as the moon skirts the trees,
sharp memories of laurel or pink peonies,
the patter of raindrops on broad fields of corn,
and chirping of robins and wrens newly born
to picture a biblical genesis morn.

A shadowless noon and the honeybee’s drone,
the essence of lawns when they’re prudently mown,
and fragrance of jasmine perfuming the night,
the words from an old song remembered just right.
The sweat of a work day that makes movements slow
allowing a pause under cloud’s softening glow
to ponder at nature’s incredible show. 

The sweetness of cocoa, the tartness of lime,
the heat of the sun melting through frosty rime,
hard crunching of autumn leaves under your feet,
convivial smiles from the strangers you meet,
the honking of geese when preparing for flight,
and harvest moon shining with silvery light
to add a caress with each salient sight.

 The snowflakes that sparkle with glistening display
adorning the walkways in white appliqué,
the warmth of the fireplace to shake winter’s chill
as glowing red ashes drift down from the grill.
No need to seek meaning or what it implies,
these self-contained offerings a gentle surprise
to sanctify grandeur in homely disguise.