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  Wings of Light
99511 Poems Read
The Majesty of Destruction
Like the first tremors of war
or the last exhale of
the world,
the storm clouds
lumbered over the hills,
and like so many
beginnings at the
end of things,
I railed against it,
along with that last
tingling star at
sunrise,
trampled by a
growling sky.
I saw things I'd rather
not remember
splayed across Heaven:
old stories that
seemed so true
in the grief-soaked
shadows,
wisps of regret falling
from a branded sky.
How effortlessly,
how naturally,
all our todays blink
into green-scented
long agos and
unraveled schemes.
Rain like hosannas
locked in living glass. . .
Terrifying newness
tearing through a seafoam veil . . .
I want all of it now—
its formless power,
its wordless song
in crackling wires of gold,
the unbearable cleansing
I once called loss,
now the space
where creation begins.
How perfect,
to be so utterly washed
by faith,
to be the lily that blooms
in the airy, linen light
after a rain.
Patricia Joan Jones
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