Holy Ground

I think every ground I've stepped on

Has been holy.

Every snapshot:

An afternoon on the couch,

With a tender arm around my shoulder,

A night of too many brownies and kisses,

Eyes wide at bursting Bastille Day fireworks,

Loud music and wind through rolled down windows,

Through hills of Canada and green trees of Vermont,

Sprawling out picking sand from the caulking of kitchen tiles,

Standing with the ocean sparkling before me,

Feeling rock under my toes,

Flying on a bike under Avalokitesvara's clear night stars,

Asking unanswerable questions.

It is all holy;

Every step we take

Is a step from one Holy Ground to another.