Is there a Spirit –
a path through a dark and folded landscape
a wanderer in front, another behind
one to lead, one to be our rear guard?

I’ve failed in imagining Spirit
that damn dove –
ill-conceived white radiance and wing.
Where, the grim-reaper of a Spirit
who knows what has gone before
what is to come
without platitudes deceptive, tangential,
or words, shouts, running, or flying?
Spirit – girding presence of longing
of desire held, released, remembered;
guide through the veil of life
into a deep and dark river
that carries away all the stones, old bones –
take my hand and lead me where thou wilt
O holy, dark, sublime, careful Spirit.

Seattle, Washington – October 2014