History/Past
Lady Certainly At The Christian Relic
Long-hemmed, golden summer sun-dress;
tan stockings, the kind with reinforced toes;
sandals---each a sole and one slender strap:
these were inspirited by her fulsome beauty,
the way my poems' lines are inspired by her curves.
The worldly work-week's worn-out cares behind,
we drove across the casual countryside,
to an empty field, wherein an arch yet stood
almost three hundred years since its carved stones
had been raised by some early pilgrim Christian's toil.
On either side of it, only wildflowers;
whatever it gave entrance to was gone.
Before she stepped out of the SUV,
she slid her sandals off; then, silently,
approached the arch, and laid her hand against
the weathered smoothness. "Such resonances,"
she whispered, almost inaudibly.
Nothing the world could have marshaled
might alter the inward sanctums of meaning
that she, there pious and shoeless,
gathered: the brethren, the eras,
the Assembly, and the Republic that ensured it;
and, at the center of it all, the Word.
The afternoon was absolutely still---
the light, the flowers, the wind, the birds, a bug;
the revelation (and what other word
describes it better?) so intense, it seemed
almost---exquisitely---unbearable.
After a time, while time still intervenes
before the timeless, we made our way back
reluctantly; and, seated once again
inside the SUV, as we drove off,
she said, "I may not put shoes on again."
Starwardist
[jlc]
