Spirit beguiles through preachers’ cooing
like a Frank Sinatra crooner: “Come fly with me.”
So we climb aboard the snow-white dove,
nuzzling into innocent irenics of soft-feathered down
while soaring up, as on eagles’ wings,
exhilarated by drunken joy of transcendent viewpoint.
Then the dove dives straight into the wound of Christ’s side,
bloodied with painting the town red,
bursting full-heart into the flames of a suffering world
before out Christ’s mouth She’s hurled in a torrent of Word.
Baptized in fire, molten,
we’re sobered silent into shock.
Still on the dove rides, dive-bombing an eagle,
weaving, bobbing, careful to avoid eagle-on-top
shredding with razor-sharp talons.
Frightened, we scream to get off the kamikaze bird
like children on a roller-coaster that looked like a blast
until the first long drop with the loop-de-loop.
But on the dove soars, violently pitching on hurricane winds
that dance like wildfire across tinder woods of creation
until, burnt and babbling wild as prophets,
we hang on (we can do no other),
finally accepting our place under blesséd wings of consolation,
smoldering still with memory, that fold tenderly at last
in wisdom descending
to roost peacefully camouflaged in clefts of rock,
preening beauty with dust and water-splash alike,
until once more it is time to spread breathtaking wings of glory
over the abyss to ascend into the next mission of divine invitation
to our delirious cooing delight.
© 2003, Tess Lockhart. All rights reserved.