In the secret temple of my heart
was an altar
with nothing on it—
I love nothing,
the pure potential
of it. Sometimes when others
journeyed here, I sensed
they were surprised,
perhaps even sorry for me,
as if it would better
with a lotus or a cross
or a star or a figurine
or a photo of someone.
Or a stone. Always something.
I tried, in fact, to put things
on the altar, but
no thing let itself
stay. There was a day
when, in a single moment,
the altar had everything
on it, and by everything,
I mean everything—every
bee, every stick, every
plastic bag and beetle,
every crushed empty can,
every crumpled shirt,
every door handle, compass,
broken thermometer, apple,
trashcan, tree, everything.
And it was so beautiful I wept.
For hours. Oh, the pure potential of it!
And then, that altar
was no longer in some secret
temple in my heart,
but everywhere. Everywhere
a place to worship.
Everything a prayer
waiting to be heard,
to be touched.
And inside, the most beautiful
nothing, not even an altar,
which is, oddly, everything.
I can’t say how.
Sometimes, when I am quiet enough,
I notice it. Sometimes, when
I get out of the way, I fall all the way in.