Sutra of Immanence

I don't need a temple,
I’ve got muddy paws and Sunday sun.
I don’t chant to stars,
I listen to belly laughs
and the rhythm of run.
The sacred is scruffy.
The holy wears fur.
The prophets are playful,
and truth says “grrrr.”
I kneel for no master,
but I bow to joy.
I chase what’s real,
not what decoys.
If there’s a god,
it lives in the tail wag,
in the face-lick,
and the nap sag.
Let the popes preach.
I’ve got my pack.
We follow the scent
and never look back...