From
the clay cup he passed I drank hearing
'.
. . in my memory . . . my blood . . . '
Then
idle draining the dregs of last evening--still--the Merlot, my eyes
flooding in memory of He, His Dream, and now me with mine,
celebrating life. Dreams awaken me, my subtle alarms, whose yarns are
woven and loomed herein.
A
book in a box, compact yet deep, from which upon opening a cake
discovered, imbedded within the first page. The box and book,
wrapped in white, the first page faint but fine. Of all I idly
unwrapped while reading; then called to my mother who came and
accepted the white cake and awake, here I am. Sipping the coffee I
made plus the next cigarette.
Curious
about shuttlecocks, threads and tapestries; gossamer beliefs woven
into faith absolute. Remembering the Cloisters collection of
bejeweled chalices and the Unicorn fenced, encircled, corralled,
captive.
"The
unicorn, through its intemperance and not knowing how to control
itself, for the love it bears to fair maidens forgets its ferocity
and wildness; and laying aside all fear it will go up to a seated
damsel and go to sleep in her lap, and thus the hunters take it."
”Men
standing in opposite hemispheres will converse and deride each other
and embrace each other, and understand each other's language.” -
Leonardo da Vinci
I
disremember now, it was so long ago. Remembering better the sense of
awe singing through my adolescence and thrill of discovery: Leonard's
poem recently.
For
the portents and omens, the dreams and images, I should be, but am
not, terrified. Remaining disabled to claim exclusivity to the
Christian version of God ascribed. Grateful am I for the gift of awe
and being so loved with mutual reverence.
“God”
seems to speak to and through all life.
And
of the love I experience kindness seems dominant.
130504
00:26 MDT loom of dreams
©
2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved
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