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A Song Between

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When I happen upon rivers

that curve through a wooden kingdoms

crystal clear beneath the skies,

I pause to hear voices in the waters

that sound like thunder

cascading down in silver streams.

They may be words of praise or hunger;

an outcry for the end of things.

 

Trees fringe the river where time is frozen,

sheathed within a wooden womb.

I cannot help but wonder

whether eternity should fill the branches’ golden fruit.

When a breeze wanders into the tangled limbs

it shakes the leaves as if to say,

How long? How long shall we remain this way?

 

Above the trees, clouds gather like a council.

They swell and sigh, ever drifting,

as the screaming wind passes by,

every vapor yearning to be gathered

beneath the feet of the descending Majesty.

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The birds brave the bitter breeze,

again suspended between the heavens and reality.

After this cycle of flight and teeth,

when lions and lambs coexist in peace,

when the strong will not consume the weak,

there will be newness though the earth will cease.

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Somewhere between the ache and praise,

between the rising and dying of the days,

there is joy before the end of things.

Like picturing the coming colors of a sunset

or waiting for the undying star

to again prove its excellence at resurrection,

parting the thick curtains of night and

lighting the stage after a mere intermission.

 

There are songs to sing before the wedding,

before heaven and earth coalesce.

The beauty of the earth is ever a delight:

to see the hands that shaped us

before we feel His caress,

to offer praise before the eternal celebration,

when our Warrior swallows the space between

breath, death, and eternal devotion.