by Gideon Burton
He lets it fall. It falls, descending pall,
grey drape that mutes and dims and dampens all
that burning morning bursting hot-white call
of crimson dazzling awe, wide world unwalled.
And yet He lets that peace in pieces shatter,
and what had glowed a grace-fierce fire, sputter.
The heat of birth reduced to smoky matter,
the whole of Holy Ghost a distant flutter.
Cold desert, colder night, stark sky a stone.
A thirst inside a hunger, trembling bones.
This splintering from heaven and from home--
my God who kept me, leaves me all alone
to shake, to scrape, to kneel and stutter-speak;
to taste the salt and blood of Him I seek.
Photo: flickr - Bukutgirl