God On Pound Hill

From the window
I can see Pound Hill.  
That’s where God
lived before She moved
to Far Mountain on the
opposite horizon.
She left a ghost 
behind to watch the place
and keep in touch with us.
We go there only
when called,

crossing over
the sacred boundary
called Silver Creek, careful not
to dip more than a toe
or else we have to go
all the way back
and start over.

Once over safely,
it’s a slow walk only,
no running no matter
what God and Her Ghost
show us — and oh, the pain

if we’re not holding flowers
picked from the far meadow,
under the shade
of the Tree.

It’s all worth it
to go through
that and be home
and look out the window
toward Pound Hill
over Silver Creek and know
we went and saw and heard.

Sometimes in Winter
I see the stone church
of my neighbors through
the bare branches,
hear them singing

for a God
they can only imagine.
A God locked
in an impressive heaven
many miles away.
They mention a Holy Land
now and then, its hills,
its rivers, but most 
have never seen it; it’s

so, so sad.