A week of noticing. A week of paying attention. Holy ground, holy people, holy moments. Parts of my list are starting to look like poems. Here is one:

Holy Hour

In the calm of night

After the heaviness lifts

And the sounds widen

When everything breathes deep and wise

Dreams no longer hover threateningly,

but permeate like healing ointment,

I rise and

Barefoot, make pilgrimage to holy ground

There I sit

among the relics of my domestic church

cracked boots still warm by the woodstove

a pink oval hula hoop

a snail shell

And a smooth rock

I wait

And poems find me.

~Michelle Winter

Is there something on your list that wants to become a poem?