by Josh Huber
In the dim daylight my office offers,
I try listening to my candles.
they tongue their canted syllables below
the constant hum of building sounds.
though, see the twin shadows of a laden
crucifix (one on my desk) they’ve made judder
against the blank wall to my left.
water but fire this time, says the Lord.
Baptized by the Spirit with wind and flames,
all-of-a-sudden full with light and heat:
something to tell.
And this flickering full bloom
foretold before an ascension so quick
it left the faithful gaping up to where
empty sky gaped back.
Now if you spit or
drop a pebble from high up the falling
body, at a certain moment, slides
from sight. And you trust, though never know, it
will strike whatever waits below. Just so,
the returning’s timing remains unknown.
So we wait–the Spirit upon us as
an everlasting conflagration,
the symptoms of which are supposed so severe
as to make all question our good sense.
Incandescent we yet bear witness:
all shall be well; the arc bends, the wheel turns,
the world reels towards love. In ash, in dust,
we do confess, God with us. God with us.