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What God Whispered

Psalm 62:11
Once God has spoken; twice have I heard this: that power belongs to God …
The mountains
Black faces at twilight.
The setting sun
Crowns them with
A razor thin halo
Of bright blue fading.

Like a fingernail
Translucent above your darkened fingertip.

I can only see
The tops of the mountains
Spinal across the horizon
Beveled line between mountain and sky
And in the striking contrast
Everything sharpens.
I can see every vertebrae,
Every crevice and dip
I can see the mountains
For who they really are,
I can know them like
No one else knows them
Even though their faces have been erased,
Their greens and granites
With flecks of powdery snow
Consumed by
Hungry blackness

Sapphire sky and velvet rock
Alone together.

And below the towering
Black heads, see
Pinpricks of flickering
City lights, nestled
Safe below
Like King Kong’s bride
No longer horrified
But safe in the grasp
Of huge black hands
Clasped against
Wild black fur belly

The heroine, pale and sleeping
Golden hair flickering
In the wind
Like these city lights

This city that
The mountains
Guard and clutch
Hard against them
Every night.

The stillness
Speaks of breeze
So soft, it can barely
Lift a hair, and which carries
The smell of something deep and dark
As dreams and mountains
Savor of lilacs and panthers

Something deep.
Powerful. Savage.
Someone beautiful
And terrible.

Who decides to be known
When and how He wants to.

Someone like God.
God who writes this story
Paints this mural before my eyes
In the inks and pastels
Of creation. Unfolding
Like a deep jungle flower.
Like a secret whispered.

Waiting for me to
Write it down.

To worship.

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