Vantage on Ground

“Because he lives, you also will live.”

John 14:17 

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Dear Kate,

Thank you for the poem below.  I don't want to steal your thunder, but since I posted the pictures above as my response, I would like to go first to speak poetically.

Poetry is first about apprehension before comprehension, a state of consciousness that before you know what you are aware of, or how to make sense of it, let alone what to do about it, you say, "Here I am."

How often when we claimed we do not "understand" something, that something is beyond our comprehension (such as when reading the Bible, listening in on a thoughtful conversation, or facing the mysterious otherworldliness of another human being), we were actually speaking about our own poverty, that we have come to that juncture of open-endedness with nothing to offer, no readiness to receive, no wonderment, no bewilderedness, not there at all for anything new.

"Here I am.  Please speak.  I am listening, on my knees.  Apprehend me as I apprehend.  Make me a channel of what I do not start to know the limits of---You in me."

The picture at the left was the original word spoken to me, in a split-second flash, and I responded likewise.  It was something profound I heard, but what did I hear?

Wood, all wood, I apprehended.  The sharp vicissitudes of fortune?  Solid wood, majestically elevated, now pulverized....nullified?  Sure, wood chips serve a good function, but to fall from the grace, the wholesome glory of being a tree--of life?

I moved deeper, my poetry, prayed for the sky to open, and arrived at the second picture, my apprehension illuminated somewhat.  But it wasn't brightness that I added.  Brightness can be cold.  I gave it the warmth of my yearning.

And the rightmost picture is for you, the Other, my listener, the reader through this channel the Speaker speaks.  I was happy enough to stay at the second picture, by my Self, but was called to make an invitation to you.  See, in the third picture, the opening in the tree trunk? the color foretelling, revealing what is to come, what the tree is truly made of? that in the losing, giving of oneself that one is finally found, on earth as one is sky-high reaching to heaven?

"For it is in giving that one receives..."

Yours, Alex

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Dear Alex,

There are no windows in my work office so I never know the color of time until I merge into twilight that humors my poverty.

Vantage on Ground

She soars with splendor
to the ground 17-foot high,
her veins split in shards -
fire everlasting,
a mound of miracle
among the maples.

Away he comes,
grey on gold
far close to the limbs
lurking in the wind,
a shadow on maple.

Clouds and clamor,
they leak terror
that twists heels
perched on underbelly
of a cello case
strutting with its carrier,
commotion stirring
the calm of dusk.

She balks at my bristling joints,
her sneering softens
my stride on maples -
embers drafting on crossroad
an epistle.

Yours, Kate