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I Am that I Am

June 17, 2021

 

Suburbia burns silently

White candles burst in

Choreographed conflagration

Graceful limbs engulfed in

Fleeting crowns of pastel flame

Ablaze yet not consumed

 

Sophisticated minds swear blind

Such subtle orchestrations are but

Skittering showers of sparks

Accidentals struck loose by the

Wild, chaotic wheels of

Dogged chance

 

But is it so?

 

Are we determined by

Mechanical necessity

Some poverty of spirit to

Impute poetic grace sublime

Each painstaking design

To mute, unthinking fluke?

 

Or does He whose voice

In steady certitude

Called from in a burning bush

Speak yet in this quiet inferno

Blazing at the dawn of spring?

Do we yet stand on holy ground?

 



The featured image is courtesy of Lancia E. Smith and is used with her glad permission for Cultivating and The Cultivating Project.



 

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