Sanctuary of Flame Sanctuary of Flame First light. That's when sobbing winds could be anything: ancestors, messengers, angels, perhaps, as another grinding night and another star screen, seared with mysteries that could drive us to madness, blurs into a new life and everything that seemed so urgent is lost somewhere in radioactive pink and pale leaves reveling against a city of flame and layered worlds. Of course, God shows up, but this is not the God they gave me; this is not the robed, fleecy, convenient, sensible deity that stayed tucked between the covers of an heirloom book— between the lamp and the remote control— the one that only came out when summoned, usually once a week, but this one is wild and laughing and announces fine art at every turn and appears as a fire-spun morning or even shadows that give light its meaning. This one is oddly human when I need that image, but usually It's an endless, vaporous, tender awareness, less interested in praise than in being Its creations, and when touched by this clarity, even for a moment, I'm polished like river stones by wonder— almost joy, if only I could bear it, but it's enough to turn fists into open hands, thirst into inner rain and pain into my road back home. The pond receives the sky like an offering, a sacrament, a chalice of gold. Patricia Joan Jones © patriciajj1 - all rights reserved. |
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Last Five© Soft and Final Landing |
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