Is everything an altar, O God?
Is every place an altar? A portal,
a window, a door, an entryway
to union with you? Is, in fact,
that the secret of this very life?
That every “where” is a but
a warp tunnel into your presence?
When I lean against this, sit on that,
walk over there, take hold of an item,
smell an aroma, taste this, feel an
emotion, hear a tune, welcome a
thought, am invaded by a memory,
see movements, am I not merely
on the cusp or periphery of an altar?
Is not all but a gateway to you?