Pagan Poetry

Pagan Poetry

Step lightly
You who pass through
The wild wet wood,
The rushing water,
The rising dunes.
These places are my church.
My temple.

My mosque.
The rising columns of silver
Touching starry grace.
This.
This is my sacred place.
Light streaming through
Stained glass leaves
My prayer rugs
Are sand, and grass,
Moss and leaves.
When you rob these places,
When you leave trash,
You ask why I care.
This place is my temple
Treat it with care.