to anywhere, for any reason
not to any place marked as holy
searching for some residue
of righteousness to inhale

not that there's any lack
of things i'd like to see—
the upward steps of mont st michel
taking me closer to heaven

the jerusalem pool that angels stirred
infusing the water with healing
for the first, but only the first
who managed to slip in quickly

such things for me are history
a physical confirmation of what was,
of ancient events that did not 
include me, but might have

none of them mean more
than walking in a quiet summer forest
thick with the reverence of redwoods
whose rich tenacious lives endure

the whisper and roar of breakers
along a deserted beach where
sitting alone in the sand
i am everything and nothing

the heady perfume of cherry blossoms
thick on springtime branches
or the flash of a perseid meteor
across an ebony sky

none of these, though marvelous,
are any more sacred than this:
a quiet hour of meditation
on all who've touched my life