Only when I open the gates of my attention
do I notice the small green shrine in the leaf
as it trembles in the breeze, a sanctuary
so vibrant I can hardly believe I almost
missed it. And then, gates open, I see them
everywhere: the delicate pink shrine
of the wild rose, the quick streak of shrine
of the rooster as he races across the yard,
and there, at the edge of lawn beside the road,
the heart-leafed shrine of a volunteer sunflower,
its stalk upright, its bud still tight, and all around it
the lines where a mower clearly adjusted its course
so the sunflower might continue to grow. How I smile
then, knowing someone else was a pilgrim here first,
how their actions helped me, too, find my way to the holy.