And, so, it appears we will sing again,
safe to stand within
the cathedral self, first
and last.
We have been scattered along
a dusty, narrow history,
the stain of ash sewn to our skin.
It is not a foreign name we have carried
on banners and breast pockets;
it is familial in the oldest languages, a blessing:
baruch, barach, barack.
This is our age of reason.
The gods are relieved.
They never wanted to be worshipped with blood.
Even fish, most liquid and hidden, are happy.
And leaves are content again:
And in the night we dream; and a dream
is a parable of light.
And we are, as each morning is,
the first day.
20 January, 2009
Exodus, Genesis [#28]
© 2009 Fammerée
* * * * *
Richard Fammerée
fammeree@att.net
director@universeofpoetry.org
* * * * *
Photograph by Fammerée
* * * * *
