Like the first tremors of war
or the last exhale of
the world,
the storm clouds
lumbered over the hills,
and like so many
beginnings at the
end of things,
I railed against it,
along with that last
tingling star at
sunrise,
trampled by a
growling sky.
I saw things I'd rather
not remember
splayed across Heaven:
old stories that
seemed so true
in the grief-soaked
shadows,
wisps of regret falling
from a branded sky.
How effortlessly,
how naturally,
all our todays blink
into green-scented
long agos and
unraveled schemes.
Rain like hosannas
locked in living glass. . .
Terrifying newness
tearing through a seafoam veil . . .
I want all of it now—
its formless power,
its wordless song
in crackling wires of gold,
the unbearable cleansing
I once called loss,
now the space
where creation begins.
How perfect,
to be so utterly washed
by faith,
to be the lily that blooms
in the airy, linen light
after a rain.