Weekend Retreat, Part 2

Still no sign of God

I reclined again into my marvelous sun-drenched rabbit hole in grassy hillside
Began to contemplate life and faith and religion asifitwerethatsimple
As well as the glittery-spined beetles that strode past my feet on their legs of string
And the lace mosquito that drank my blood with its needle beak
Yet I heard no soul-shuddering voice charge like rain from the sky
Was hit with no burning-bush spiritual awakening magical moment
Did not reach Enlightenment my soul reborn butterfly-birth

But lying down…

I did watch the endless Georgia pine trees bow over me in the calm-wild wind
Dream-like as they bent so far I knew for sure they would CRACK and flatten me
But they did not and I loved their cold breathy murmurs
I did listen to the calm-wild wind whistle over the cool concrete roads
I did feel the pores in my skin swallow-gulp contented the warmish daylight
I did observe the gaunt hollow face of the moon supernatural in the blue sky
I did listen to the dead skeleton leaves crackle and hiss so wonderful
I did let my lungs get feathery drunk on the fresh-cold mountain air
I did look at the swirling seas of the sky and let my eyes glow happy

And maybe God was there.
But maybe not.
But maybe.
But maybe not.
But maybe.
But maybe not.
BUT MAYBE.

But maybe not.

Regardless we met again soon enough with blossoms of sheepish grins self-conscious proud
We dance-swayed again and smile-sang our nice leaping verses of Christian songs
But I could think only of those ancient wrinkled pines that bent over me so low so low
Their sharp brown shoulders held fast by some marvelous Goliath angel
And the Sun that reached through them like Mother’s hands bright peering fingertips
And the cerulean sky was wet and warm on my face

That night we marched solemn black soldiers under the moonlight, awed faces
We were walking the stations of the Cross—they said—and the magic of the night descended
As we read with star-studded eyes from that big leather book throbbing mysterious
And we gazed up at that splintery blank-faced instrument of torture looking innocent
I wondered about this cross’s great ancestor, the Legendary One
Hero of the crucifix necklaces and the agonized oil paintings
How the Cross felt on that despaired gray Biblical day flushed with mob fury
The taste of that shepherd-carpenter’s divine steaming sweat and the searing heat of
His sacred wine-blood injected into dry wood with dagger stabs through bleached wrists
To be so close to his broken frame and gleaming godliness

Our ghostly breaths tumbled out silvery from between our numb lips
Someone whispered in my ear that the moon was upside-down
Its chin lit so brilliant just liked our own ones coated with white from flickering flashlights
I said I thought it looked nice that way

And I was so warm on that frigid night among the other quiet glowing bodies
And the solid stars ignited burning bright just inches high above our skulls
And I listened to the steadily unsteady voices read this story I knew so well
And liquid emotion trickled thick and real through the ducts of my heart
And I seemed to feel that time and place where it happened celestial bloody martyrdom
Was floating somewhere in the sky just above us

And it all sounded like poetry
Beautiful poetry
Fantastic
Wonderful
Raw
Heart-wrenching
Poetry

Later that night we retreated inside let the flying blazing tongues of the hearth fire
Paint our somber-skinned faces and shocked cheeks and unblinking jewels of eyes
We washed one another’s feet fancying ourselves ancient beard-faced disciples
And noticed shocked somehow that we all had the same ankles and heels more or less
We washed the cold clay feet with melting finger tips and light lukewarm water
Time softened heavy-eyed lovely and ran down the walls in watercolor streaks

Before we knew it we were sweetly asleep in our beds
Wrapped in amber shrouds of sleepy steam
Technicolor Biblical dream
Morning.

Morning and the mourning of this blazing white religious-fat mountain top
Where we extended our hands to the skies and thought perhaps our fingers brushed God’s heel
We met each other under pearls of dawn cloud our eyes glinting sad laughter
And embraced each other with tight orangutan arms beloved weekend companions

The gray-bearded weekend priest with golden retriever eyes anointed us with oil
As we rose to form a mass of swaying breathing cells with arms around one another
And hands on each other’s shoulders and fingertips buried warm in our hair
And soft faces pressed into one another’s necks and holy hands clinging to our clothes
People were seized by convulsing sobs spines quaking silent weeping
Their eyelids streaks of red and tears blooming on their cheeks like sunflowers
And then the priest with his golden retriever eyes laid his hands on me
And then a hundred other hands rained down upon me wonderful warm hurricane of hands
And I was enveloped in a soft soundless cocoon of palms inhaling me
I closed my eyes as he intoned his chants like the ocean tide moonlit-marvelous
As the dozens upon dozens of fingertips washed over me like saltwater waves

I cried two tears then.

One, Wholeness. The other, Certainty.

And I breathed God in and out
And my eyes sparkled Holy Spirit glittering irises
And a hundred hands were lying upon me
And it seemed they would never leave

But moments are only moments
They dissolve like rain drops in your fingers
Shattering into a trillion atomic shards

And soon it was Monday.