How long
are we
to write prose,
sing songs,
Photograph by Susan W. N. Ruach
preach sermons,
offer lectures,
convey
truth
singularly?
Can the ineffable mystery
toward which
we point,
about which
we write,
on which
we orate
be captured,
caged,
held,
sculptured,
designed,
delivered
so tightly,
then
released
so lightly,
or is it just
beyond the story,
the poetic verse,
the iconoclastic image,
the slithering simile or multilayered metaphor,
spoken in feathered form,
lifted toward the sky,
released to fly
as creators
in their telling,
hearing, meaning-making,
touching hearts, stirring souls
in the eternal space
between and among
us?
A pair of dove
in hand,
set free from such
liminal space
to go and be
what they will.
When will we
trust the dance,
the body of silence
the under-soul of non-space
flowing
beneath
the currents
of what we see?
Out of such
eternal solace,
multitudes of tranquil stars shine,
insights whisper
the vale between
two worlds
tears,
revelation
in the moment
happens.
From there,
a glimpse
into the temple
of misbegotten
sounds and
longed for
silence.
Eyes
awaken
from deep sleep,
open,
to what
has been;
the nowhere
and everywhere
out of which
the divine
vortexswirls,
inviting creation
in the
generous, gentle stir of
pre-dawn light.
