By Ranae Pearson

My Sacred Place

I have my own
Sacred Place.
I’ve found it
While kneeling here,
In the basement.
I would have liked
Lush green grass
Beneath my knees,
I would have loved
To have heard
Birds singing
Of the constant
Rumblings of
The old freezer.
Somehow the Spirit
Didn’t seem to care
Whether I was kneeling
Near cement walls or
Quaking aspen trees.
I needed
Spiritual guidance.
I needed answers …
And I received them,
Right here,
Across the room from
The canned fruit,
Near the washing machine.

The Hummingbird and I

When I think of how small a hummingbird is
Compared to the sky
Compared to the distance he’s traveled
Compared to his journey ahead,
I wonder why he doesn’t rest
Quiet his wings
Quiet his aching hunger
And his desire.
When I think of his faint strains of song
Compared to a symphony
Compared to heavenly angels
Compared to his breathless lungs,
I wonder why he strengthens his descant
Raising his song
And raising his upward flight.
When I think of how short a lifetime is
Compared to eternity
Compared to the distance before
Compared to the journey ahead,
I want to soar with the hummingbird
Speeding my wings
Speeding my aching hunger
And my desire to excel.
When I think of me, my faint strains of faith,
Compared to a prophet
Compared to heavenly angels
Compared to my burning heart,
I want to strengthen my flight
Raising song,
Raising upward flight,
And raising praises to God.

[photo] Photography by Ray Kirkland