Holy Ground

Searching for holy ground not far off, but right here, our faith drawing beauty from dust.

I search for holy ground,
not there, but here:
breaking up dry clods of dirt,
sawing off the tops of barrel cacti,
sniffing for water.

It's so dry now,
but guerrilla gardeners
tuck seeds into clumps of mud,
dry them on windowsills
and dashboards,
and drop them on dead pavement
and Martian dust lots
with faith that it will rain just enough
to make this desert city bloom.

I find holy ground
where the scent of rain-drenched creosote,
a mere dream today,
draws us out of our homes
and out into the sun,
working for tomorrow.