SPIRIT How would it feel, then, to live in that God-shaken house? To feel the wind, like the very breath of life, like the stirring of the deep before time, gusting through these small daily rooms, clattering and pressing against doors and shutters, not to be contained? How would it feel to look up, eyes dried by wind-force, and see fire falling, flames bright and crackling, and resting with heat that does not burn on each wondrous head? To be blown open lock-sprung lifted with wild reckless joy as words tumble out into the clear singing light? It would feel like this, it feels like this, and it is still only morning --Andrea Skevington
A Pentecost Poem come to think of it…
actually, your spirit is not really like a flickering candle sitting on the altar, which we’ve protected from scorching with a heat proof mat you burn with irrepressible, ferocious passion.
in truth, your spirit has little in common with the gentle breeze from the fan fluttering the bulletins as it rotates from the front pews during the children’s talk we can barely stand upright in the face of your love.
luckily, your spirit barely resembles a helium filled red balloon, rising, just out of reach, to taunt us as it rests against the church ceiling you would subsume us in the unrelenting hold of your peace.
we think we have you nailed in our fire resistant, cyclone-proof, red cloth swathed metaphors
thank god our inadequacy defining you has never stopped you yet.