It happens right here, walking.
No reaching for untethered shorelines.
No seeking safe-harbour others have written about in travel pamphlets.
Right here as I sit, tea in cupped hands, dog curled tight at my feet,
birds singing life into the rising light it is
only and always right here as I sit and then again as I rise and and then again walk
out the door of my own home into the morning day
across the stretch of green-dewed lawn
tending the hungry shoots of spring garden birth walking
the stones of the pathways across the fraction of earth God has given to me as my own
heaven’s ground.
Here like this existence itself all of heaven.