40 Days: Journeying to the Light

And

so it was

in an infinitesimal moment

that circumscribes the rise and fall of miraculous kingdoms

we will never read of in agèd manuscripts,

in the span of an aching heartbeat,

the whirling descent of an eyelash detached,

all dawdling ceases & the grey periphery transforms,

shifts to unragged focus

clarity.

[40 days]

divine revelation, submission, sickening tumbling sensation

wrenching heart palpitation, full surrender, transformation

pleading, “no, not ready yet, not ready”

yet born equipped

to stand,

refined,

alive to You,

shame stripped away,

for there is no place now

for loathing in Your glorious light.

In my weakness, You shine all the brighter.

Optimistically Kafkaesque

You cannot produce new words

while you remain there,

hopelessly tangled in the old,

suffocating under trips of the tongue,

awkward pauses, and mispronunciations.

You must shed off that crystallized ink,

a dim exoskeleton, each and every morning,

acknowledging that you have grown

too capacious for your modest home.

It is only then that the writing can begin,

the wordsmithing, the storyweaving.

Israël

When He calls You out

into the Wilderness,

You will not be without sacred spaces

for He will go before You,

anointing the very ground

You walk upon.

 

Behold, the sky will fracture

and downward will tumble

His distilled vessels of peace

in a direly tender deluge.

 

Drenched in love,

You can do naught but

humbly follow where He leads,

until — by grace — You stumble

upon the wonder of

The Promised Land.

Attrition & Acquisition

Chasm

I now see that you have become fluent

in a language I cannot communicate in.

Though I pause and murmur and laugh,

all these signs and symbols

are jarringly out of tune,

                                                         disjointed,

reeking of a foreign, clumsy tongue.

I am unversed in you now,

and it was not always so.


Chaos

We are perched on the edge of our seats

within a dim room, reverberating with rhythm.

Waiters bustle frantically by,

whirling our words into the shadows

where they feebly sink,

weighted down as soon as they are spoken.

When the blonde child at the adjacent table,

wiggling impatiently, abruptly turns,

wide-eyed with a clairvoyant honesty,

what can I do but shiver to my very soul?


Companionship

Honey, drizzled across my fingertips,

cascades lazily into the fragrant tea below.

The blonde girl before me abruptly turns,

brightly smiling and petite —

faerie-like in the sense of her smallness

and the ethereal way she glows and moves.

She should be elsewhere, but she is here.

A cheerful introduction, and then I know:

we speak the same language.

Meet Me Next to the Nymphéas

My feet know the way,

and I trust them.

It is a humble, everyday sort of magic, I suppose.

And so, at last, with their guidance, I wander into the hushed gallery

and am bewitched afresh — utterly, completely, hopelessly.

My eyes blur with sudden tears,

and I am alchemy of emotion.

I breathe in greens, lavenders, golds;

I exhale serenity.

Hello, old friend. It’s me. I’ve come to stay awhile.