It was a time when heaven burst.
A burning bush blazed, unconsuming fire lapping and curling
with tones and tines of tethered lightning crying with a voice so clear,
like a mother fawning at her baby's first steps;
tender bloodshot eyes, wondering when her little miracle would bubble.
Who understands the sacrifice needed to launch the mission of a life?
The sky was torn into a thousand shards
as untamed forks of white, brighter than a welder’s arc, split the heavens.
It was as if the air itself was penitent,
gripping the roots of a celestial tree that reached down to the earth
to welcome the pleas and little lamps of devotion.
It was just another thunderstorm, only divine whispers.
Morning moodles fueled the fire
between coffee and a beeline to the door,
and then a broken shoelace broke the dream,
so sent scurrying to the junk drawer to search for a mending string.
Healing done; another miracle bubble makes the hissing breaks of the bus.
Another Day in Paradise, lowercase p.
Walking the long way home to think;
and debunk the quagmire of crumbling pillars.
Burned by the nothingness and the flaming desire to know and be known,
to destroy all mystery and to possess all knowledge - to be like God.
A laughing child and a busker’s song jogs the wandering mind back to praxis.
It's only ordinary magic - God is God, we’re not, and that’s good.
Remembering twelve tradesmen waiting for what they couldn’t know.
Shaken by hurricane sounds and unburning flames.
Dropped-jawed, astonished, their mortal tongues drawn
to a Spirit that knew every language of the hearts of humanity.
A dozen dazzled in the shekinah glow of everyday grace.
Flabbergasted at the conflux of another miracle bubble.