Friday, July 3, 2015

A Call To Freedom

She sleeps on a bed of heritage roses,
Awakens to a whispered invitation -

                                            Come unto me

Her ears cup the words as she tries out her mouth.
A rusty bugle nests her sleeping-bird tongue.
In the space of her silence she hears other voices,
each one a withering accusation -

You knew…
You did…
You are…

She raises the bugle to her lips, the bird flutters its wings –

I knew not…
I didn’t…
I am not…

Fear rustles her story into silence.
On a gust of the blue wind’s holy blowing, the invitation returns unwearied -

                                                 Come Unto Me

The bird is weary, the bird is weak.
She places the bugle in a glass curio,
secrets herself in a pleasing summer hat.
Shovel in hand, she loses herself in the heritage roses.

No thank you, I’m fine.
No worries.
No trouble at all.
Don’t think a thing of it.
It’s nothing.
Nothing at all. 

                                                    Come Unto Me

Against the scandalous invitation she cottons her ears with feathers,
waters the hat with burgundy wine.
Sleeping, working, planning, sleeping, working, planning,
shoveling through the years, hoping to earn her voice.

                                                Come unto Me –

What perseverance, what faithfulness in this long-suffering invitation.
The blue enhances, the holy blowing pursues.
But still, as fears silences a song
she hides in hesitation, cows to worming rumors -
confusing her past, obscuring her futures.

                                                Come unto Me –

Struggling to go up, she falls down,
down to the floor of herself,
right through the door of herself,
backwards, sideways then onto her childhood knees.
Unabridged, uncondensed, she lands on the edge of
what-could-have-been and what-can-still-be.

                                               Come Unto Me –

Retrieving the bugle, releasing the bird, she makes her reply.

I hurt blood.
I’m weak wax.
I white flag surrender. 

                                             Come Unto Me

Easter morning she awakes to the scent of lily-clad words,
She rests in her beautiful ruined story.
The current of myth takes stock of the truth
And judgement heels its curse at the cross.

                                                     I am
                                                     I am
                                                    I am
Your Rest.

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