Sacred Geometry

is not a question of
streets named after dead Masonic presidents
or rayed eyes framed in classic pediments
on aging brick facades.

It's not about a wheel
of boulevards around the central treasure vaults
aligned with monuments that dance a measured waltz
while dropping names and winks and nods--

but in the fractal edges
of buckeye leaves that line the walks of Northeast neighborhoods
or pools of rain among the ancient rootstocks of Mt. Tabor woods
a breezy shimmer shapes a glimpse of God.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside