Friday, May 4, 2018

to establish ties

There’s a rupture in the Trinity—
the Father sees a non-kenotic rift develop,
a new and tragic distance,
Son and Spirit, and his self.
Some angst has
hampered perichoretic harmony,
disrupted trusted denouements
of their divine comedy.

Spirit, prone to blowing where he will,
is hard to pin down.
His wings so used to flying,
hold in them—he thinks—a dictum,
a haunting kind of fate,
to wit:
that he will be perpetually a-gust,
blown about by gales
and never have a place to rest.

Father’s heart aches for Spirit
who holds (and is) his heart.
He watches Freedom himself run its course
whose current bend, it seems,
leads far from him.

How very odd it is, he thinks,
sipping coffee on a windy night alone,
to be a principle of unity,
pure being willed into ever-existence
by the absolute freedom of love,
and wholly at the mercy 
of another.

It’s the sort of joke no one could imagine,
yet the sort of one I am.

He laughs.
But his heart beats irregularly.

Even the Son images dimly.
How lonely a number—two.

The Father's cup pauses,
removed before it hits his lips—
Am I at fault for Freedom's flight?
Son is broadly advertised as
"only-begotten," "most-beloved," and 
"in whom I am well-pleased,"
but in the thick of messianic glory,
did I neglect to tell you that I love you?

Son sends his angels to woo
his sweet, shy Spirit back again.
They sing, for their own maker,
a psalm straight from the lips of God:

"Ah, Spirit, you are wrong:
It’s the foxes of the field,
and Son who have nowhere to lay their heads.
You are not a tame God,
but a taming one.

The clay of cosmos, wholly preoccupied in their
unholy toy shops,
find themselves needed and necessary
for nothing but to play pretend.
But you are responsible for more.

Come at 3 or 4, or whatever hour
the hunters dance with women
and chickens free for snatching have grown scarce.
My heart is ready, oh Spirit,
my heart is always ready
to greet you with the proper
and truly humble rites.

So come rest your head on the bosom of my love—
you may flee as your Spirit moves you,
but you cannot escape the place where you belong—
where what is invisible to so many callous eyes
is found essential, unsubstitutable,
and seen."

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