A Preacher's Prayer
Here in this foggy clearing of words,
may your Word emerge
like a deer from the forest
to grace with a glimpse
breathtaking Beauty that gazes
with soft eyes of wondering kindness
before leaping once more into cover.
I understand I cannot look upon You
too long for fear my soul
will be burned into blindness
like eyes that gaze upon the sun.
Every now and then, though,
peek through fog with white flick of tail
so I remember this weary chase is not in vain.
I keep watch at poetic edge of language
like a child mesmerized by lava lamps
where molten fluidity rises
in ever-unique amoeboid shapes
on a journey destined
only to fall back down again
into fiery primordial ooze.
My fellow creatures know our place in time:
death has numbered our days,
but it cannot change
your ways of Being Itself,
and your first law of thermodynamics--
matter is neither created or destroyed;
it’s all only energy changing forms.
We’re but earthly lava lamp lumps
rising to fall back into
your glowing meonic potential
at the end of foggy language
where hidden Word awaits revelation
in glory’s full fire,
uncontained by any form,
yet resurrecting all fallen shapes
with animating Being-Itself,
transforming even death
into fiery minuet of glory
that discloses oozing forms
of Beauty’s brief emergence.
But while I have breath to praise,
let me look for graced glance of promise
on the days’ hot haze of horizon
where time falls into eternity’s rising
and, seeing form approaching,
give chase through burning fog
with glowing globs of leaping words.
© 2001 Tess Lockhart. All rights reserved.