Time

Paladin

Years later,
he feels the vial
against his chest
that holds
the only fragment of lightsong
given freely to him.

At night, sometimes,
he drifts
to a dead and thankful sleep,
as it melts,
the glass unvitrified,
the sand photonic
hourglassing inside him.

Always,
the next morning
it is whole,
emanating the piece
of the light
of the heart
of the hand
that sought to clasp his;
and even to raise him up
out of darkness
everblack.

Shaking his head,
he pushes forward,
raising his shield;

the demon is already swinging.

Rising Sign

So,
I do not think
any longer should wonder
be entertained
in this waking dream
as we apart
seek that bridge that spans aeons
and even stellar cradles.

I have figured it
in the alchemy of
quantum entanglement,
on the blackboard of the heart,
inside the mandala of time.

Listen,
for water seeks to give.
Waves throw themselves
on the shore of the land.
Rain falls to the skin of the earth,
liquid seeking the embrace
of the deep
and sanctuary of the bedrock;
and roots to drink it,
feeding the hungry pulse of life.

Water gives; so what is water
without a heart-receiver
but only a universal solvent?

Into water one may throw
infinite strikes;
ever will it resume its shape.
Onto water one may project
mountains of rage,
and it will only reflect
what you already know.

Fire,
fire is simpler still,
and only seeks a hearth
with the fuel of an endless heartbeat.

So,
while the free winds
strike their vastness upon the sky,
and paint what they will,
a vessel of water and flame
would be only placed at the altar
before the ancient tree
whose roots grow deep
into the sod and stone…

…combusting growth into dreams
and gifts eternal and warmth in winter;

and silently,
offering a song of praise
for the birth
of earth on earth.

Caesarean

And I was conceived.
That was the first time
I lost you.

I know, now.

I was rent from the pages
of the ether
from the universal fabric
as were you.

Torn? Oh yes.
Torn from the dark
torn from the valley
and the enervation
and the deepspace
beyond this visible incantation.

That was where I last held you.

And thus was I given this body;
these raiments of oxygenation.

So this is why
I am friends with Charon,
and why my two cents
count for something at least.

This is why
whenever I saw the evenstar
break upon the last light
of our sun,
I felt the wind
and breathed deeply;

and why I lost my mind
in sheaves of cotton
and plugged the cables
of adventure
direct into my brain;

and why
when my gaze was swallowed
in the arm of the Milky Way,
I missed you
far below my words.

Time is the mist
before me on this path,
and all I know is
when I held your eyes with mine

one thing out of all
made sense.

Haven

Frost clings to cascading haystacks

in the comfort of a low fog bank,

resting

in the benediction of the softened morning sun;

the rocking chair, holding a rhythm,

the barn door, open like a hymnal,

the fenceline, stretched as a sheet of music;

eddies of sawdust dance in the light.

This is distinct,

this is a dilation of time,

this is intercession,

this is the mote in God’s eye,

and the blessing of memory coiled in on itself

with the old lariat in the corner.

Listen to this silent song:

a distant scrap of laughter,

brushing off a rising wall of cut granite;

the fading warmth of an embrace

stealing away into the mist.

Like the mason’s craft,

the mortar cracks to dust;

the stone remains.

Tabernacle

Hush, now;

the sun is spilling over these unending pastures,

and she is standing at the end of the field,

watching

the coupling and the uncoupling,

the warp and the weave,

the sky and the soil;

and, holding a handful of dirt,

sees light race to the edge of the prairie

where it drops off into space.

There is a voice, here,

a scrap of sermon remembered:

“…let us reap this rampant harvest from the firmament.”

She stands, letting the stalks brush her hand-

some are bent,

some are broken,

some are painted with a swath of morning,

and some are spattered with a thin trail of blood,

as tails of air uncoil in the wheatgrass

over miles of root woven to the earth,

pulling at the groundwater;

something moves, a pulse

insistent as the creak of a wooden pew,

in this place

unleavened as the bread

cooled upon the dinner table.

Hush, now;

she stands at the end of the field

as the wind stirs behind her,

and, for a moment,

picks fragments of ash

from a naked foundation.

Question Mark

Shall I ask of you

things not seen for a thousand years?

May the common man walk on water,

if he has enough saved to upgrade his boots?

Is the logical extension of classical music

the electric guitar?

Will the rainforest

live in terrariums? Terraria?

Who will correct me

in a thousand years?

Is time only a tracing

from a to b?

If you travel backward,

what will you ask of those from the days of long ahead?

Or, is time a river

eternally swallowing its own tail?

And, will I see you

tomorrow?