lurking in recesses of the mind,
they suddenly emerge...
understandings that would not appear
in any yesterday, yet here they are,
a trick of consciousness,
ready to disclose new mysteries,
ideas and adventures
never thought about before.
But I must chase the images;
they disappear and fly away
before I pin them down,
yet have their way of coming back
as inspiration—hollow, silent
thunderbursts within my viscera,
that substitute for God—
may indeed be God implanted,
not by whim, by passion or entreaty
of a master sculptor in the sky,
but by the glorious cosmic chimera
of our creation.
You and I, are they who wield the wand,
perhaps indeed from a divine intent,
but it is we who are the sculptors,
we who grace the skies
with kindly paradise, and we alone
who have the power to love or to destroy.
The thunderings are from within,
the insights ours, the loving father
not out there among the stars
manipulating his divine machine
inspired by mortal prayer,
but of the dust beside the river,
just like us.
There is a certainty within it all...
and like the river running through us
has a job to do
in all that quiet thundering.
It has to do with sustenance, of life
we never knew until this very moment.
It has to do with celebration of the new,
an unimagined, closer walk with God.