by jeanne rené
Aside
these boughs twined of firefly lights,
baubles merriment and jubilee,
now lost in the scent of pine and candle wax
I assemble,
my thought
my sense . . . my wit about me
My meditation
demands,
close my eyes.
Bids me listen
to the thunder . . . a voice soundless.
Commands me
release the hours,
pause and inhale a singular breath
. . . pause and inhale a singular breath.
Know me as I bring your lips to mine,
I release my word and swell your lungs,
in your waking . . . in your slumber.
I am the only current,
at once, the same, high and retiring tide
. . . quiet . . . listen
I am the rise and the descent,
holding nothing from your seasons.
I am ever the seeding,
ever the harvest,
birth and death as one
and duality
. . . quiet
I distinguish no celebration
for I am consistent in my bounty.
I credit nothing to translations,
or tongues,
your histories, or crusades
I am undivided . . .
absolute
. . . wordless
Close your eyes.
Hear,
I am the name of the child gone before you,
after you
and standing beside you . . .
the child whose hand you seek
In my rumination, this Christmas come,
midst song and celebration I find,
. . . in the hush, the whisper of the only breath
You are my primary colors,
the mixing of my forest and heaven,
the paints of my red soil and dazzling sun.
You are the blending of all hues and textures,
the threads of our kente,
the fine stitch of our quilt . . .
the laugh of the baboon,
the leap of the gazelle
And you are . . . simply present,
ever waiting
for us to exhale . . . . .
copyright jeanne rené
