Is there a thing not sacred?

The wing of the dove, or the moss on the rock?

The sigh of the contented dog,

The downward dancing leaf?

Is there a thing not sacred?

Perhaps the light of stars

Or the shine of the moon

Your reflection in the water

Not and yet a part of you?

Is there a thing not sacred?

The blood of birth

Or the gasp of death

The closing of a wound

The way a scab forms then peels?

Is there a thing not sacred?

The fatigue of living

The drudgery of the day hours

The endless, anxious quiet of night

The constant wishing for it to end?

Is there a thing not sacred?

The closing of the eyes

The tenderness of touch

The fullness of the heart

The briefest, brief reprieve?

Is there a thing not sacred?

Even one?