Saturday, October 6, 2012

they're just grey lanterns

Today I went on a pilgrimage to the place you baptized your feet.
And I saw a plastic bag in the stream.
Filth clogging water always stirs a river god's wrath,
So I removed the bag, freeing the water,
as when we unchained the water from the shakles of the Beruna bridge.
 
I took a rock.
I held it in my hand
and for a second I let it be mine.
With all my might, I threw it out into the deep,
and watched the ripples spread across the pond.
As a tear rolled down my cheek, I remembered:
I can only throw the stone.
I cannot control how far the ripples go.
 
Climbing down farther than we ever had,
I found myself perched on the edge of a noisy cateract.
Water poured over the table of rock,
Wastefully and wildly, with all the carefree wantoness of nature.
It was there, like Eustace, I tore off my dragon's skin.
 
For a third time I turned to go.
The grey October air hung like an enchantment over the bridge.
For a third time I sighed.
And on that sigh was hung a trinity of unspoken words.
Finally, I made my spiritual communion for a third time,
for a eucharist whose taste was bittersweet.

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