“Holy Ground” by Lesley Hart Gunn
- 1 day ago
- 2 min read
Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place wheron thou standest is holy ground. – Exodus 3: 5
1.
Remove the tied, zipped,
heeled, strapped monstrosities.
Leave them on the curb
next to the fire hydrant,
above the rain-worn gutter
and the woman yelling
from her window.
Let the crush of pavement settle
against the soft insides
of memory cushioned feet.
Feel the burden of gravity
balancing on the bone sack
of being. Feel cement’s progeny
gouging the kindness
from your heels. Endure each step,
layered pain as strata, collecting time
and thickness in skin’s topography.
2.
Leave the city for the fenced dreams
of suburbs. It’s cleaner, quieter,
but it doesn’t hurt less.
Trespass the grassy edges,
break yourself open
on the small world of snail shells,
weep on the lost causes
of earthworms. No matter how far
you walk, you won’t scrape
the guts from your calloused feet.
The pain will feel natural here,
like bee stings in backyards.
So right that maybe
you will give it a new name,
like endurance
or contrast therapy.
The rawness draws blood
to the surface but refuses
to let it spill and ruin
the pristine, white sidewalks.
3.
Pass through the patience
of picket fences until
it turns to tall grass. It grows
shamelessly, bending under
sky’s breath. Much grows
in neat rows of pampered soil.
It squishes between torn toes
with each sinking step.
There is relief in the give
of dirt and root.
There are also chiggers,
Stinging nettle, thistles.
Rural fantasies neglect
the sharpness from the edges
of earth’s untamed
children. Blood mixes
with dirt and makes mud
just like rain.
4.
Continue to where grass is not enough
to catch the attention of gods,
where branches reach into trees,
and trees reach into clouds,
an endless effort
of ascension that pushes hopelessly
toward a heaven ringed in memory.
The smell of sweet decay
whispers an ancient language
carried in each pith.
The roots of life are buried
in battered brilliance,
crowned in the welcome mat
of emerald moss.
Hold the moss to your soles.
This balm
made daily on forest tears
will not stop pinecones
from their swift copulation
with already broken arches.
The ground is thick with solace
and pine needles that knit
each mycorrhizal step
to the history of everything.
5.
Every wooden, weary footprint
leads to water. The cold slip
of smooth rocks,
the weight of wet sand.
It carries
and never admits defeat
to what sinks and waits.
Ground and gravity
make rapids of saintly
softening bones.
What matters is relief
and the way feet wrinkle
when left too long in the river.
It feels like a book well-read
until the binding breaks,
the sky bruising from the day’s
long-fisted pummel into night.
Each violence absorbed
tenderizes the barrier
between a pristine soul
and the rough
and rugged wild.
This piece was published in 2026 as part of the 15th Annual Mormon Lit Blitz by the Mormon Lit Lab. Sign up for our newsletter for future updates.