One can almost hear them whispering,
knowing they are linked to us
and more intense than memory
they cannot stay within their tombs,
for by some sort of grace not understood
we lack the power to leave them
to their faded history.
How many meadows set away
accommodate the dead,
accommodate this surging love
that inundates our days?
How may we take into our hearts
the light these spirits share,
their passion to reach out to us,
to let us know their world and ours
I think it may be up to us
to seize this holy joy, remembering
there is no separation, only change.
Remembering the presence
always known before
when oceans intervened.
And what of science and of doubt?
What of the white-stolled priest
and of his vial of dust?
What of my quailing faith?
The stars crash down around me.
The trembling mountain that I did not see
now looms before me, shaking me.
Shall I become the one
to turn away?