TRINITY SUNDAY: A Poem for a Rainy, Existential Afternoon

It does not rain but drizzle:
Overcast and breezy
Like the days on which I read
The best adventure books
.
.
Today is an adventure day
And only lacks the smell
Of burning wood
From an unseen neighbor’s forest

Beckoning to be discovered
.
.
I stroll the broken concrete
Disturbed by maple trees:
That house a thousand soggy birds;
That overshadow gardens full of roses;
That make a second canopy
For the barely-wet umbrella
I carry like a house above my head
.
.
Today it is a Sunday:
A call to contemplate the Three-in-One
Whom the priest – an ugly man,
With twisted face from ancient strokes –
Reminds us God is Love,
Communio:
The Spring Song of those foolish birds,
And twitterpated teens,
And every half-determined form
Of shaking someone else’s hand –
There is the pattern of the Divine
.
.
He is not a Hermit, I am told:
A grumpy figure wrapping clouds
About his shoulders like a caveling god
Who refuses his alarm clock
And mutters to each prayer
That sirens to the sky:
“Five more minutes,” or worse –
Who answers not at all.
.
.
O, No.
.
.
His is the Spring,
His is the Song,
His is the Dance,
His is the Adventure
Pouring out upon us
Like this renewal-rain
I shield my body from

(Emily C. A. Snyder, 5/27/2018)


Image courtesy of QyGjxZ.

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