They’re building a neighborhood next door,
clearing land, moving earth,
extending the street, erecting houses.
I finish my morning prayers on the porch
before they arrive with their crashing and beeping.
But, Hark! The loader’s back-up beep
sounds exactly the same note as my singing bowl.
Because I, too, am building a neighborhood—
not of buildings but of prayer:
a place beyond time and space
where souls may find shelter and belonging.
I am clearing ground, uprooting things,
the uneven made level and the crooked made straight.
I am laying foundations, offering space,
making of my heart a welcome home,
so all of us, friend and stranger,
near and far, human and not, are neighbors.
The builders’ work is in this little cul-de-sac,
but mine fills the whole world.