Permeate Us Like Rain

Permeate Us Like Rain

(“This is My much-loved Son. Listen to Him.” Mark 9:7)

Permeate us like rain,
let the clouds surround us with the intense
privacy of light. But our ears are
stuffed and marooned on the islands of
powdered wine. We pass nothing to each other,
and can think of nothing more to say than
we hope it all turns out okay. But ok
is nothing more than
saying I want it to turn out my way.

We pass the sidewalk saints for the black
and white
that describes every person’s plight in morality plays.
We make do with lists of rules. We tailor our
prophecies so fools can fancy themselves kings.

Lord it over us, we ask you, please. And spill the dross
from the outliers of the gold rush we hoard for ourselves.
We can sell the dust in vials of water from the Jordan,
we can make a killing on gilded pages too holy to read.

But there is a turning, a do-si-do that is deeper than earth,
higher than your cruciform steeples. But there is a fancy
dance
that invites every tribe to see the leap of child to parent,
clasp to sharing, strangers to lovers, and an imitation so
clumsy we all fall down laughing.

And we never speak of locked buildings again. We have
seen what we have seen, we have died how we have died,
we have lived

How we are loved. And we can never die again.