I’m swimming in earth and can’t move. The trees and grass are overpoweringly green, the stones in the ground golden and blue, depending on where the sun is in the sky. In this noonday light, my skin looks more radiant than it really is, and my cheeks are warmer than in the average given moment.
I am confused, like some roots that unexpectedly exit the ground, assume they will become a tree, then become increasingly bewildered as they only form into what is known as a lump, as a sore thumb.
God, get me out of here.
A golden-crowned kinglet hops over, pecking the earth as it goes; every leaf or root with a meal, it kisses. I can move now, and step closer.
It does not run; it even comes closer, as if I have something to offer. Really, I have nothing but admiration and awe, to observe how this sphere of feathers and flight moves alongside me, and how easily it flies, yet not fleeing from me.
Do I? I do. I reach in order to tentatively touch, and with the back of my index finger, stroke the down between its wings. I have done nothing, yet everything, and I am happy.
I eventually leave, as is necessary, but I am still in the park in my mind.
It was not wrong to reach out, nor was it reproachable to touch a willing creature, but do others think the same? Do they know what I’ve seen? As far as I could tell, the bird was well, and could not have harmed me, nor I it.
Oh, how I long for things to be right and to be won.
In an orchard, apples are ripening, making their thin branches to bend in selfless burden. The harvest is here- no hours remain for pruning or grafting.
The breeze rustles the paths of the gardeners who have only to gather the bounty that withstood an eternal year of toil. Meanwhile, fallen, rotten, and soured fruits were lost to the wasps and worms.
Delirious with sweetness that now makes itself fully known, feasters gaze at the stars in peace. There is no thief left to come steal, none who still thirst for blood. The rains and snow are now gentle and whispering, and the winds only tousle with the intention of delight, murmuring mysteries to keen observers.
Here is a city that never sleeps for the reason that there is no need – the streets are illuminated always, the ramblers and galavanters guileless and trustworthy. The flowers in proportionately-peopled parks are lovingly tended, and propagated to any wanting patch of barren soil.
Both the boisterous and reserved have no wants, other than to be in one another’s company, and speak of God and his various gifts, and how they are bestowed upon every soul, in a continuing call to creation.
Wholly good is the holy time that has finally come nigh!
Into a city that I had called my own, even when I had lost memory of it.
I had sought out its beauties, unrivaled in sea or on land and
Learned to love it for its brusqueness and elegance so crowded together, then beyond separation.
Are you happy now? That heads are rolling in the street, that the fat now have more to eat, that God’s places are filled with satanic doctrine, that anyone do any deed he pleases?
You didn’t say you wanted utter destruction, but you did – and you hated me, didn’t you? I sensed you would murder me, with long knife slashes gushing pools of blood if earthly consequences could be dammed.
Even God’s wrath is held back for a time – it is only by his grace that both the righteous and the evil have not been struck dead. I am struck with grief, that you take the sign of God’s mercy for pride, that you seek to dismantle every good thing that comes from above, wearing the raw skins of newborn lambs to do so.
He has already won the war – you will endlessly writhe in agony, for you have forever rejected your one salvation. You shall never touch the splendor of God, even when you have torn down the holiest of temples and the finest masterpieces from the hands and mouths of God’s messengers. For even now, my grief is only temporary at this marring of man’s creation, and therefore God’s – but you shall never snatch me from my Shepherd’s hand; my Lover’s arm; you shall never silence my Helper’s voice, the eternal Word that has ordained all that is, and therefore me. What has been paid has been paid from eternity to eternity, and my soul is forever bathed in my Redeemer’s blood; no matter how much blood is taken from me, His blood has made me pure and I am his friend.
You are not satisfied (for you, true happiness is forever an impossibility), and will never be; the day of salvation is at hand; the Lamb’s wedding is nigh; and no scheme nor construction will have it delayed. Out goes you, to the scalding pit, whose residents shall never again know God’s grace that he so lovingly bestows on all who still live.
And so in sorrow and quivering anger I say all that I can utter. This is not undue, yet what is to come cannot be undone. Though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, He is before and behind me, I am hedged in on either side in love, and He has borne it all for that which is set before Him: