Saturday, April 9, 2011

lent./ la tormenta

Hymns rise from a procession of shuffling feet that pause at stations of Jesus to pray. Prophetic birds circle about my head as I step back into the shadows so as not to impose or be seen to observe. This is not my rite.
Clouds sit low and fat, waiting to release their swollen load. A great tongue rolls out from the alter of the sky to lick clean the wounds of the earth.

No comments:

Post a Comment