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a voice crying out in the postmodern wilderness

I Hoped to Burn This Lent

It is written:

Do not get drunk on wine,
but be filled with the Spirit.

 This Lent I have dried out
so my veins could become kindling
to fuel a fire around my bones.
I have waited;
I am waiting.

 Send me a wildfire,
a controlled burn turned
uncontrollable.
Let hasty wind rush
through to consume
the woodpile of 
my soul.

Meanwhile, we turned
toward the sun this morning
and the dew melted as
the night fled in fear.
Your vigil does not end
with this burning ball, 
heating up the incense
of skin and oak trees.

 With fanning breath, 
you shush me awake.
I may not be alight,
but the world is burning
around me.

And that is enough light
to see by as I 
chase sparks.

Cups

Those Days Are Gone