The Grand Dance

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I wonder if anyone else can see

the stained-glass waver like water,

almost hurricane-mad,

all energy and terrible beauty

as the Spirit breathes

outside these church walls

while we sit within, hands folded

primly behind the pews, waiting

to be pre-approved for rapture.

God’s shadows like to dance

against New York city bricks,

flaming lovely even in the eyes

of the world-weary people,

those passing by on the buses,

on the backs of the inky-night streets.

Yet, I wait to hear

the language of angels and cathedrals,

hidden in the waves of some lake,

cold and deep, in Minnesota.

I feel like a slouching Solomon

on some subsidiary throne,

watching every lady dance,

silver bracelets and anklets jingling,

trying to find meaning slip

between the sways of their hips.

It’s a shame I can’t speak angel,

or feel the Spirit shake my hand,

and yet every blade of grass bears

some semblance of my soul.

Nothing is bright and easily seen,

but I have these eyes wiped clean

from when Christ scraped

the black-muck sin from my own ribs.

And I think yes,

Grace must still be alive,

moving in a grand dance.

His curious hands push the petaled

stars and Jupiter into the evening,

while His mere breath trembles

the drops of rain on the train tracks,

slowly repairing every moving body

to Eden-shimmer again.

It would be easier to understand

the pops of a bush burning,

or have the Spirit blow open the church doors

with the sound of a great rushing wind,

but I can almost feel the grip

of Christ’s hand, the ridges of His scars,

whenever I touch the firm warmth

of a sun-glowed doorknob of bronze.