To me, what’s holy


To me, what’s holy
Is that place in childhood
In the sweet scorching sunlight
Long before the winter set in,
The pure clean dust on boots and faces,
The roadside graced with Queen Anne’s Lace,
The jeweled glistening glass along the rainbow creek,
That ran a different color every day,
The utter boundlessness of tar-sinking footfalls
On the never finished streets, their safety lamps
Burning eternally like votive candles
Lit in memory of long abandoned labor.
Once I found a ring bristling with keys
Their secret locks forgotten.
In the utter stillness of mid day summer,
I sat looking at them for hours.

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