Sitting here alone, but not

This sacred place, this field of dreams and memories

Where the wind blows the

Wildflowers in waves and

The sun hides behind

The milky clouds and is

Draped in sweet softness.

Blue shadows slip between the trees, as

Om Namah Shivaya drifts from flower to flower

On the wings of a bee.

The tangled growth at my feet

Holds the whole universe in its breath.

Dozens of varieties of life

Bloom together in perfect harmony.

No temple, church or any place of worship can compare

The spirit reside here, it is not just visiting, it belongs.

Services, Kirtans, and Masses serve to honor, praise and worship.

But this place, this existence of perfection,

Sings its own tune

Its own worship in just being.

The creator exposed in its creation.

The essence of God in the unopened milkweed flowers.

The promise and potential of love

for its own sake.

The truth can be no plainer, no more perfect,

No more beautiful.

I sit in witness and feel the grace in the grass, the life in all there is and the peace of this place.

The peace comes to me and from me, and

So I sit and by witnessing become a part of it all,

All I need to do is sit, just sit and let it be.

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