Bonnie Thurston
I make my home
in a small place
on a little hill
under the trees,
content with the comfort
of small creatures,
humming birds
smaller than my thumb,
the chipmunk who
takes peanuts from
my fingers, nestles
by my hand to eat,
the cheerful wren
who, if I leave shoes
on the porch, makes
her home in one.
There are dangers
inherent in not
belonging to a place.
Nothing keeps you
from hurling trash
out the car window
if you don’t know
who lives on the berm.
If you are not rooted,
why have fellow feeling
for the flowers
or for your fellows?
Why care about neighbors—
winged, two or four legged—
if you have none, only
strangers, dangers?
If you do not love
one precious place
how will you know
holiness everywhere?
