New Clay

The soft, cotton string
of a jet splits the autumn sky
as I sit on a hill above the river
wondering.
The labor of hands and feet
and a mind intent on moving
suffers frustration, a shiver,
a thundering.

A decision in weakness
in the garden of heaven
and now we strive and thrust,
desiring;
But better lives were ours
before the blood lines
passed as they must, before
the firing

Of the new clay we inhabit,
where we taste but a glimmer
of the freedom that was given
and spoken.
Finding the gift proves fruitless,
though, unless we destroy
ourselves, bringing us riven,
broken,

Like the raiment between
the world and the holiness
when the clean blood fell
like rain.
As the lines of cotton fade
above me ,and the sky is one,
I find understanding in the nail,
a gain

Of sorts, for how else can there be
such love as a death,
such gain in loss?
Tell me.
The river flows still,
and the tree of my life
is twisted to a cross.
Nail me

There and take this labor
and craft some greater love,
end this strife.
Grave me.
For no labor brings joy
like a love given freely
like the gift of the life
that saved me.

On this hill I imagine
another time
when the life of the world hung dead
until a blood stronger than the river
ran and a wind from heaven swirled
instead,

and I rise with new eyes
and I walk new paths
and I can sing
As one
with the angels and saints
and the Father of Lights
as They come and bring
the Son.

~bsower~