The Holy Spirit and the Dance of the Stream

The willow is one of six that dot the edge of the creek.
A good place to sit, with shade and sound
of water over rocks.

The creek dances all year round, no season
too dry or too cold to rob it of its song.
A good place, a sanctuary.

One of many. Apparently I need more sanctuaries
than most. There is less of me than before
and so I seek the places that feed my spirit,

places of power and peace, holy spaces
without the stain of stone, wood, bricks
and man. Places my own stains can not mar

The water carries me away, or at least the dead parts,
the broken parts, the darknesses,
leaving me empty, ready

for filling anew.
Hopefully with something
better than I am myself.

About this poem

Spiritual more than religious.

I do crave peace more than anything. It’s been a constant for fifteen years or so now.

The picture was taken on the way to Pawlet, the next town over. Usually, there are sheep there,

Tom