Strange

Strange. On this Sabbath evening in September, I feel a new season in my bones. I want to throw all my poems away. Toss them into the sky like moths and let them be drawn into a dark flame, where I can hear them crackle away into silence, leaving not an ash or cinder. But of course moths are life, and my poems are just words that feel so worthless and empty now. O silence, Word-womb, you who are both Lover and Beloved before they become two, let me pour these poems and this mind itself into your terrible consuming love-fire. Even the elegant moth of God's name, and the wings of God's form, amethyst and gold, emerald and diamond. I surrender this breath to your annihilating sweetness, where Mary burns up in Christ, Christ burns up in Mary, and nothing remains but the fragrance of adoration.


Image by Matt Collishaw