Originally posted at Charting my Words
In the safety of the arched window
‘neath the shadow of the cross.
I sang of Pentecostal fire
My words fell cold upon my lips and
a chill creeped up my spine.
My frosty breath belied the truth that
the fires of Pentecost had died out in my soul.
Seeking to fan what embers remained,
my song grew louder still.
Yet, dying embers die
and I was left to aching bones.
A faint memory of fires that once blazed in my breast
stirred my feet to move.
My prayers grew fervent
My disciplines more devout.
My service raped my soul.
In vanity, I lifted my entombed prayers
as fuel for the dying flames.
I watched as those around me walked away,
cold and hardened,
weary of stirring the embers in hopes for more.
I choose to wander.
I wandered from dying fire to dying fire
seeking hope in the dying flames.
They drew their circles closer in effort to protect
the few warm coals that threatened to ash over and die
and I no longer found a welcome there.
I wandered for a long while until,
tired of walking, I sat beneath the shade of a wise old oak,
beside a field of barley,
neighbored with bubbling streams.
It’s tangle of roots held my tired back,
and the brook washed my weary feet.
The grains of barley danced before my eyes
as the heat of the day pressed on.
Soon, the light itself began to fade,
and the Sun sought his western tomb.
Evening gathered her velvet skirt
and took her seat in the east.
As I watched the fading light,
a dove sang out it’s mourning song,
and a sob escaped my lips.
No more would the Sun shine in my soul.
His death and interment confirmed this for me.
I resolved myself to the quiet coolness that
frosted my hopes and longings.
My cheeks, still warm from the heat of the day,
cooled as the wind carried my tears away.
In this moment of solitude and resignation,
I perceived a new and unknown thing…
The sound of rushing wind filled my heart
as the coolness of the night breathed across my fevered soul.
I then beheld the rising of ten thousand flames of light.
They gathered on the hem of Evening’s gown,
hewn with dew and wind,
they alit on the chorus of tongues, set to the circadian rhythm of the stars,
and sung by a chorale of evening voices.
The tree frog called and the whippoorwill replied,
awakening the hum of cicadan verse that
harmonized with the crickets’ Aria.
Their song drew me in
as Evening gathered me into her Ebony arms.
Held by the strength of the wise old oak and baptized by
the new fallen dew,
my heavy eyes closed and a spark
ignited in my soul.
I smiled as a Pentecostal fire took flame
in the fabric of my soul,
ignited by these incarnations of the Spirit.
I watched my prayers rise as incense,
from a life birthed unto nature, their threads
of unknown mutterings joined the galaxial dance
of flaming stars that move to a foreign tongue,
that I now heard as my own.
I rested in Mother Evenings arms,
alight with hope,
and closed my eyes to the searching and wandering
and opened them to what is…