Petulant Achilles

I sigh, putting away my ragged paperback of the Iliad.

There is a black winged moth, resting upon a lily pad.

The calming pool in the courtyard, blooming water lilies.

Eerie beauty in those white flowers, not petulant Achilles.

I think of Felicity, and how she’ll come sit with me, in an hour.

I am flowering ivy in the spring, and she is my white lattice bower.

A fluffy and fuzzy bumble bee crawls into a flower, legs all dusty yellow

Nectar is sweet, and intoxicating, brings blooms, fruit, orange tangelo.

The choir I hear through an open door, sing a piece set to a Psalm.

Comfort in touching God, music, prayer, sweetness of Felicity’s lip balm.

How do we sing of The Lord in a strange land; Earth is all, to us, Strange.

The Spirit, and agape, we make a place here, a tabernacle we momentarily arrange.

For an hour after classes, Felicity and I will hold hands, talk, gently kiss, giggle, blush.

First of spring, Easter here soon, He rises. I hear Him in her voice, and sing thrush.

Sometimes we are silent, and the wind is cool, and the bright, and we are content.

In these quiet, pure moments we are more than flesh, the veil between heaven rent.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s