I first heard it as a whisper
in the womb
the spirit that followed
Creator’s voice at greater than
the speed of light when,
He spoke the universe
There is no sheltering sky, no magical parlance,
no tubular bells, groaning chants or
ringing bowls that will save us, just His voice,
soft as spring’s yawn.
I caught it as a child midst summer Cicada’s cry,
in the silence after my mother’s tears, in the background
of my own stumbling through life, it was direction
murmured from the wilderness as I walked a
narrow path to eventually face eternal winds and
I took a deep breath.
He came in flesh, walked roads, cried,
suffered, bled, died to atone
and ascended. Creator became man, His Spirit is
the ageless echo beckoning through storms, rage of war,
to the drunkard cursing, to the haughty rich
who cannot buy another
day of life.