Tattered Flags Across Richmond Bridge
The way two images become one occasion,
because the wind is a messenger,
and, perhaps, also a creator.
Wind, breath, spirit, the same
in languages arising from seeds
carried great distances,
even up river or across the sea
to be planted in distant places.
The land becomes a vast altar
before our eyes as we gaze,
eyes closed, at what is
sanctified between us.
The sacred does not need us
to manufacture anything,
but to tend what springs
from the soil, and even the fire
at the center of the Earth.
Today, an old friend sent a photo:
she is standing in a stream alongside
an Elephant who is healing
from the terrible work of our hands.
The flags flying between the eucalyptus trees,
have images of Wolves
who are, at this moment,
suffering the hunt.
A young Christian girl wrote from Georgia
asking about the Spirits and calling herself,
Little Lost Wolf.
Whatever we do or don’t do,
the water remains the water,
the air remains the air,
whatever dark burdens
we force them to carry.
And you, there,
gaze, with awe,
at the invisible, revealed by the flags breezing
along Richmond Bridge,
the way I, here, gaze
at tattered flags between the trees.
What we ask, is to hold each other,
as we lean into the wind,
or dive deep into the holy waters
in order to serve promises we made
before we were born.
When the language of prayer
is a tree, walking,
or the steady oars
of a night canoe across the sky,
and each word spoken
is a step on the path
of not gaining on the future,
then, we can also go out,
as we once did,
dodging Spider webs
slung across trees,
as we give our word.