are rarely holy days,
As celebrations tend to take up time,
Presenting a prosaic paradigm
Pressed into a crowded, day-long maze.
Yet even holidays are sometimes holy,
Having sense to pause while one is reeling,
Open to the Other, hushed and healing,
Living, as one does, neither sole nor solely.
In every moment holiness abides,
Domiciled in every absent breath.
A single turn, and one sees life in death.
Yearning ends, and love unburdened rides,
Sailing like a wind upon the tides.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon