Sunday morning, January 15, 2017
I woke to gospel cadence in my mind.
Clap children.
Amen.
Stand up on your creaking ankles,
laugh at the bone snap.
Glory wakes up every day,
arthritic.
Praise is a dusty hat,
trimmed with Sunday’s busted roses.
We are gathered here today,
as we were gathered yesterday,
as we will gather tomorrow.
All irises
ice blue to coal,
open with hope.
Wet with memory.
Red with glory, waking up every day
on snapping ankles,
to march
through dusty roses,
over bridges,
through glass and golden towers,
on pain of love.
We are so heavy.
We are heavy with rolling storm
but we can carry it together.
In our hearts
we all hold the thunder
of The Preacher.
