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. |
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