This loveliness intoxicates like liquors:
eclipsed by foliage, the sunlight flickers.
As we wash dishes, time swirls down the drain,
unless we’re mindful, then nothing is mundane.
Each time I point, the dog looks at my hand.
The point of pointing he doesn’t understand.
While birds declare with songs their territory,
the ways of men, in contrast, have been gory.
In you – behind the flesh and bone facade –
an unseen essence shines – the face of God.
What do we achieve by way of worry?
It makes a blizzard out of every flurry.
Created sacred, wholly holy – you
are blossoming in my field of view.
Mario A. Pita