Lichen licked twigs,
mossy sticks and crumbled
leaves, the debris of the divine.
Light the fire within the cauldron.
Clouds of prophecy tumble skyward.
The pantheon is near.
Your are your own guru.
Unseen Helpers exceed
all timelines of collective space.
Any time of year, any day,
let the water spirits cleanse
your morning, carry stones of the earth.
There is no place that is not sacred.