Holy Hour

A week of noticing. A week of paying attention. Holy ground, holy people, holy moments. Parts of my list are starting to look like poems. Here is one:

Holy Hour
In the calm of night
After the heaviness lifts
And the sounds widen
When everything breathes deep and wise
Dreams no longer hover threateningly,
               but permeate like healing ointment,
I rise and
Barefoot, make pilgrimage to holy ground
There I sit
among the relics of my domestic church
               cracked boots still warm by the woodstove
               a pink oval hula hoop
               a snail shell
               And a smooth rock
I wait
And poems find me.
              ~Michelle Winter

Is there something on your list that wants to become a poem?