Promising nothing
our path slides at first among
manicured money, well guarded,
then runs toward the sea
risking everything
Butterflies dark and light
mark the way
like laughing children:
they play in the dust,
and so do we
This is a manifestation
of the Kingdom:
the coal barn like a temple
hard against the river,
the tide going out
Old wood is the magic –
ancient pillars and
abandoned boats:
we run our fingers across the surface,
feeling the universe beneath