Amazing poetry shared by a talented writer.
It must be an ancient place,
the way the mountain has eroded,
maybe sacred once to one tribe or another
in a time when life was simpler, more elemental,
and still it feels like a sanctuary–cool, dark, and silent,
but for the soothing fall of holy water,
and the avian choristers’ anthem.
Translucent green leaves filter the sunlight,
dark branches like the leading
between colored pieces of stained glass
telling old stories too distant to easily believe.
Like an empty cathedral, a tranquil, reflective space
that fills with one’s own belief or doubt.
But these stones were never hewn by human hands;
there’s no need for a preacher’s pulpit or bishop’s chair,
or even the allusion to some lost paradise
from which this place takes its name,
because divinity comes here
to touch the earth, to breathe the air,
to mingle with the waters.
T. Allen Culpepper