My Own Religion


I do believe.

But I am not a Christian

And I am not a Buddhist

And I am not a Muslim

And I am not a Hindu

And I am not a Jew

And I am not a Sikh.


I do have faith.

The universe is still.

The baby grows.

The trees move and whisper soft secrets in their breath.

Leaves die and glide like Eagles from the peak of Mt. Zwegabin.

They dive into nothing and faith is the air in each feather.

Constant and automatic.


The stone ground of the temple is crumbling

And worn down by time and a rhythmic battering

Of feet and tiny toes.

The bricks are warm.

They absorb light like sacred sponges.

The trees of the forest.

The lungs of the Earth.

They are too hot for my white slipper-tanned toes.

I tip-toe quickly, gasping a staccato, “ouch, ouch ouch!”