We gaze into the night
and see the stars a-whirl
upon the canvas of
infinity.

About the stars the planets dance,
making their rounds, spinning,
gathering heat,
reflecting light.

We gaze into the night
with our feet
firmly planted
on sacred stone.

On mountain’s peak we stand
on sacred stone.
At ocean’s edge we stand
on sacred stone.

When rock runs liquid
down the slopes
and steams into the sea,
it is sacred stone.

When weather wears
the rock to soil
in layers of richness,
it is sacred stone.

When loosened by
ohi’a’s root, mixed up
with life’s decay,
it is sacred stone.

A stately galaxy.
A star’s vast heat.
A planet’s core.
Sacred stone.

A bed for flowers.
A soaring pali.
A mountain sighing.
Sacred stone.

We live on sacred stone.

Sacred stone.

I was asked to provide a closing for a meeting of interfaith leaders last night. I said something like this, which I can’t precisely remember, and has become the seed for this poem.