Pentecost

We attempt to add the indeed
to He is Risen. After Easter, after so much after.
The Word walked on egg shells
among us. Fortunate for us the trembling stone,
the largess less likely to be whisked away
than simple, mountain words. Fortunate the witnesses,
the matriarchs and their meticulous haste in doing
what they’d always done, and the boys who followed,
whose precepts grew up in the shells of their own eyes. Each sound
beckoning the white silence, then water rushing through vocal cords,
then fire.  How can this uneducated fisherman show us God?
Fortunate for the obedience of fishing, for the leaves which shudder
in the sac of life, for the broken process of finding seeds, for the words of a man who left the sand immaculate
with the brush of perfection. Not fire, light.