reminders

it used to be,
in corners of my home,
little altars everywhere—
Buddhas, polished
stones and crystals,
Ramana Maharishi’s
secret smile, a baby’s
lock of hair—
and on my arm,
olivewood beads
smoothed and oiled
with regular use
the names of God
a prayerful susurration

I recall the day
my mouth went still
crystals rehomed outside
one Buddha sits alone
serene in stone
inward altars now, no
outward signs desired
crystals no more revered
than this thumb drive
or pottery mug of pens
that live on my desk
each thing miraculously
given, each one sacred

2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.