What is sacred if not the sunshine on my face?
What is holy if not the eruption of giggles from deep in my
five year old’s belly?
What is honor if not the way I strive to be love in every single moment?

There is no other. 
There is no other.

There is only me, now, here
mysteriously intertwined with you, 
like lovers at midnight in a moonlit room.

There is no sanctity apart from
the way the flowers lift their bodies to the sun
the way they sprout, and bloom, and wither, returning to earth.
The way joy feels
the throbbing ache of hope.