Pneuma

Your wind-borne dancing
Sows the lambing fields with grass,
Our tears with soft praise,

The river, or the delta,
Its muck that formed this flesh-ness.

By swoon of labor
Spread the seed, that fertile speck
Of stars longer gone.

These lips now taste your sweetness
While the wind twists through our hair.

From dawn fields seeping—
Mists and wheat and tears, distilled,
To fill these cupped hands

With prayers spread on musky bread
And drink to conspire with night.

Kissing the flower
Deep into your deepest self,
The world, trembling, sighs

As saplings listen, waiting,
Fill themselves with longing breath.

Nectar of blossoms
Soaks into the ancient bones,
Whose roots reach deeply

Seeking flesh that remembers
The sacred hymns of these trees.

Above—the swarm-dance,
Their songs spent in sweetly praise
Of heaven’s bright queen

Proclaim the Mother’s calling
To curry the sweetest comb.

© Brother Karekin M Yarian, BSG