Sanctuary in the Quarry
The sun comes up over the quarry.
Cold and golden, for just that one moment
it is magic. The light. The angle. Perfect, and
either you capture it, or you don’t,
but without the walk up the oily gray slate path,
your feet stumbling over the cold stone,
you have no opportunity to witness God
in his homeland.
About this poem.
We only find God when we seek him. But when we seek him, he is there. Where ever there is.
Duh. Not a lot of wisdom in this one. Just a morning thought.
The picture was taken in the old slate quarry across from my house.