(Title is a paraphrase of the title of a poem by Dylan Thomas)
Now consider this ancient voice, the carpenter' son naked
on His timber against the light's high wall.
Consider the remarkable choice which we have - to hammer
down His nailed moments hard like notes
of a very singular bird into the freedom of a sky (where else
but sky to incorporate a structure's full dimensions).
There sentences cry, prophecies echo off every cloud, and
highways of birds crosshatch back through our bodies
while the angelus bell of poetry calls us back to always, so
nothing is ever lost and time is always one.
Even with old Mr. Death up a piebald tree snickering, laughing
at our foolishness because he knows as he shakes
his branches over our domain, allows a random quilt of blood
red leaves to litter over backdrop and ground,
that his role is playing in the film where he is the star, a star
of the first order in skull mask and breathless wardrobe.
And his script is true to the sky: a rich overture, first into chaos,
then completeness, then sleep ...finally our anodyne.
So let the sun end, it is always with us. Time is no end or beginning.
Even with broken wings in splints we still would fly.
The Words, once spoken, are ours to keep.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.