Thursday, June 09, 2011

Thursday is for Imperfect Prose: circling the presence

I wonder what marked the moment as the acceptable time for tongues of fire to fall down?
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.

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

and we knew it when we saw it.

The Tree of Presence Completes the Forest
Scott Erickson
Vancouver Project, By/For

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