It is very clear there is a sacred within us.
It is as lucid as externals like skin or flesh.
A house of solidly ethereal bones.
Within it all those spiritual children running.
All those small but important sacred feet,
making exquisite, impeccable steps.
All of the dead before you and the dead after you.
Take your place in line between these.
If there is no place you ever belonged, the finite is not
lacking in earnest interest, nor efficiency or concern.
The guests who came with you are going. Follow their
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Comments about this poem (Transcendance by Romella Kitchens )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
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