Sunday, September 18, 2011

Every Last Dust Mote

One follows the path, even when spiders erect their tendril castles across it, even when it seems the woods to either side are more inviting. A purple maple leaf suspended at waist level, testifying to the potential for grace (and against destinations). This is what I have, this is what I do, so this is where I'm going. Thus began (or continued perhaps) an rigorous and creative exploration of psalms that are rooted in place. The mid-twentieth century was an interesting time for exploring nondualistic Christianity yet yielded up surprisingly boring God poems. Yet if it happened once, it is happening now and you'd do well to remember that. I smell bug repellant and remember how the sunlight on sliced tomatoes left me both hungry and content, an odd combination I have yet to resolve. The desire for certain words - especially trisyllabics that turned on "L" sounds - was an early profluence. You find Emily where Emily found Emily - in Emily. We are led before we know we are led (which is a comfort, strangely enough). He announced that he was rethinking cause and effect and the chapel attic was suddenly silent, as if every last dust mote were ready to attend. Ducks skim the pond at daybreak, their silvery wake brighter than the sky. To pray is to listen. To find (and adhere to) a certain structure - twenty sentences, say, or question and answer - is to realize that poetry can be salvational, enlightening. As a  driving rain of many days revealed unbroken bottles long hidden in the mossy (the untroubled) earth. You turn back and that moment - that turn - is where the walk happens, that is where "it" is. Rotting tomatoes, bulbous onions, dew on the overgrown kale. On the weathervane, a crow regally opens and closes its black wings, as if saying again what it said long ago and only now are we ready to hear. We made this world to obscure the face of Christ and we did a pretty damn good job, didn't we? So at last one arrives at Emmaus.

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