Sacred Space

My father and my grandfather built the cabin
the year before I was born.
One room. A pot-belly stove in one corner.
A porch

overlooking the intersection of life and heaven,
an ancient mill pond, home
of wild geese, thick happy bass, and beavers,
home

to at least part of your soul,
a place of unusual silence, full of history
that comes not from books,
but your life.

This is where your soul rebuilds,
where, in a few short hours you reconnect
with your hope, with your God,
with

the stillness where life grows strongest
and most true. Less a place of memory,
it is a place of old growth and promise,
a lost world

you can come back to
again and again.

About this poem

We all have sacred places in our lives. This is one of mine, a mill pond that sits in the woods of what was my grandfather’s farm in Surry Country, Virginia.

Tom