A certain magic word?
What ancient riddle opened the door? Moved the mountain into the sea?
What familiar Spirit fluttered the dead eyelid? Called deep up from deep?
I do not have the word, have not discovered the incantation.
But I've met the Spirit
and I think I know the answer.
I do not know the answer in the way one memorizes a flashcard formula, babbles
incessant technical jargon, wishful thinking, vain repetitions of one-hit wonders.
incessant technical jargon, wishful thinking, vain repetitions of one-hit wonders.
Not in short-term memory exercises. Not in altar-call professions
sudden inspiration, prickly goose-bumpy revelation.
I do not know the trick to conjure down the flames.
But I studied the dusty photographs
read unfeeling the prayers, practiced the old language on inert tongue.
I slept under the canopy of intercession, squatted in the hallway with the Son,
rocked sweaty in the lap of the Father,
eavesdropped under the door crack the Spirit-guide
read unfeeling the prayers, practiced the old language on inert tongue.
I slept under the canopy of intercession, squatted in the hallway with the Son,
rocked sweaty in the lap of the Father,
eavesdropped under the door crack the Spirit-guide
and we knew it when we saw it.
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| The Tree of Presence Completes the Forest Scott Erickson Vancouver Project, By/For |
