I miss it every day

Remembering The Holy Land

Morning,
at the kitchen sink, bare feet on cold tile,
I find myself circling the Shrine.
It is how I always remember it:
Winter, rain misting the marble,
jasmine and jackals filling the air.

Afternoon,
in the garden, sweat watering the soil
I am in the Master's House.
It is how I always remember it:
Spring, orange blossoms and aurocaria,
the Guardian's ghost pacing the paths.

Evening,
whispering Allah'u'abha, Allah'u'abha...
I am in the Mansion of Baha'u'llah.
It is how I always remember it:
Summer, lantern flickering on shadows praying,
His tiny shoes beneath a square of silk.

It is how I always remember it.