Silhouettes of windmills turn like a lazy clock, a pendulum drumming the wind,
A sherbet sky, tangerine ombrés to blue ice while elongated wisps of pink Cotten Candy stretch like pillows on the horizon’s snowy bed,
Two lanes to infinity,
Ditches, collecting snow and brush; cedar, sumac, red line, Hawthorne. Weigh stations, deer crossings, farm houses, pole barns,
Prairie Rose State Park, Cenex, Kum & Go,
Hills banter, fissures of golden grey stubble,
Wide open skies,
And miles and miles.
What you see and don’t see, how you divide your unfurled gaze, unguarded and vicarious. Coasters for tea and liminal spaces between snowfalls, neglected gardens dormant beneath. I will ask questions and enjoy our anxiety together, in our aging breast’s lumps and nightly wakefulness and torrents of doubt. Striving at being curious instead of recklessly judgmental, until the overhead speaker intones “Your tenure is almost up, young lady.” If you don’t cauterize the wound you’ll find (die of) infection.
The city beckons for Emmanuel's song
to color its walls.
Creation groans for children's seeds
sown in tears to sprout a harvest.
Heartsick waiting, bone deep hungry
for light to banish darkness away.
To be still and with burning hope
raise voices to join the chorus bright
and color the night.
Every word is a translated thought, a transliterated feeling
loosing color and physical sensation
becoming vibration
from my body to breath,
vocal chords tensing together, the friction of life.
Prosidy, this attempt to melodically
describe the flight
from synapse into words
from me
to you
it's more than a syntax’s span
it's eons and lands
centuries and alphabets
darkness and light imbeuded on these hinges of sound
strained into symbols strung together, the creation of life.
What writes a rinse of honesty
shed blatantly
amongst amateur pilgrims and operations specialists
this is a corporate rumination
a detached elongation
of awareness forgotten until revelation r
e
a c h e s again
pulled from the well's depths
the hydrogenated salve heralding
bottled, branded, sold,
a certified holy rinse to un-save a soul
Do you want
Do you want a god
Do you want a god devoid of mystery?
Safer to inhabit a structure containing systematic thoughts of the divine
Conveniently retrieved from the shelf to justify or condemn
this teflon cased religion, impenetrable.
Or do you want a
Do you want a god
Mysterious, yielding and unyielding, incarnate, dead and resurrected, better than you can hope or imagine.
“I don’t need a god who is the mirror image of my own misguided understanding” -Andy Squyres
Morning light, diffused through clouds upon the ground's white garments,
A cloud break and the snow is shining, radiating like the moon, as if snow's light light comes from within
Above bare branches, stark against the gray
Fragmented lines creasing
Frost breath, bone chill
December.