|The Potato Eaters, 1885, Van Gogh Museum|
The cups are reproduction impressionism,
Monet, mostly, with Vincent Van Gogh thrown in.
The tea is peppermint and chamomile, perfumes
mingling with coffee, dark-roast and Java conjoined.
The conversation is of worship and service,
all as if random and not sophistication.
We drain our cups and reach for ego death in deepsilence, counting on God’s unconditional love.
Within the frame, set and purring, a bottom drops,
a flash reveals the holy temple and surprise
Sliding on light manifests fire in ice, control
cracks, mind gulps, heart re-pumps more than its mere blood
Certainty turns inside out, echoes and beckons
till we advance blinded and without our crutches
Just before grabbing the life raft again, we feel
spirit search for us, flames lifting skyward and loud.
The instant we leave we want to return to face
radical simplicity, call out God and more.
The instant we leave we rip our clothes in mourning
and frame our loss in adjectives and verbs.
In the beginning was before the word, below
and beyond it, we say, and nod, once more grounded.
But we want to be mystery's shadow puppets,
we want to leave costumes, props and poses behind.
For my prompt at Poets United, Midweek Motif ~ Design
Copyright © 2015 S.L.Chast