What Shout of Praise

The leeches worm their way, thick and black—I’ve a heart tho, too red & ripe for you.

What a shout of praise will rise

Your words dashed like the emptiness they are

To shatter & scatter, oh the joy

Of watching the final breaking

Of their echoing emptiness
I watch as this army grows and builds

All swords into plowshares & they’ve 

Struck deep the sickle, the wheat, weeping

With joy, with fullness, with relief—
The angriness of weeds, well, but of course. Their rushing violence, their harsh words, their roaring screaming of abuses & bindings of small sticky threadlike grasping, tearing at the rigidity of the wheat as they are plucked & torn—

We have stood all season, waiting

And there now is the call to harvest 

What is waiting
So out the army goes, ripe & full

Words falling at the wayside

Unstoppable as the storm blows

Remembering not to worry about 

The sky…

The harvest is rich & brimming & those last little seeds are most precious of all. 

The doors close. The wind rises. The storm blows. 

What shout of praise shall rise

It will deafen & hurl itself in with the winds

The gasp of awe followed by songs of praise

What shout of praise will rise

When finally we see with literal eyes. 


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