Saturday, November 25, 2006

A Grander Moldau

July 7, 2005

Still looking back at old favorites. I love Smetana's "Moldau." And I love the Reservoir.

The bank clock proclaimed ninety-two degrees.
The air was so stifling as I left my apartment,
I did not doubt its integrity for a moment.

I’m here now at the reservoir;
the breeze upon my skin is cool,
so cool that I begin to question my perception.

Behind gray and glowing clouds,
I hear Your power thunder;
source is veiled, but not sound.

I wonder at reverberations
transforming earth into a timpani;
rain falls like a piccolo,
a recital of Smetana’s Moldau, only grander;
this music he could only imitate,
which no one yet has, nor ever shall
manage to duplicate.

I wonder what strange language
rain speaks to leaves in my beloved Sycamore?

I wish I could sing like that.
If only I could speak pure truth
the way these thousands of droplets
slap against the pavilion’s roof, the grass,
the thirsty ground, the once-still waters,
alive and rippling, reflecting naught except grace
sent to slake creation’s thirst.

I thirst, yet not for rain,
though something in this torrential
stillness of the mind,
where I find myself content to listen to the
praise of the sky and single-minded wisdom of rain,
brings me to deeper stillness yet.

Even as I wrap this shawl around my shoulders,
the wind bites through, reminds me of mortality,
and also of eternity.

Mystery becomes You…

And somehow,
this finitude reveals, conceals,
instructs and astounds;
leaves me speechless in divinity.

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George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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