When the sky is more
a slow-curdling
sea than a clean
eternity,

when the ghosts of
distant hills
fly with trains of
heroic blue,

when the bursting
immensity
of the rest of it
becomes knowable
at nightfall
and the magnetic
darkness
poured into
the crescent moon
is only
the beginning,

and it's believable
that beyond the
hanging firestorms
of ages
is another
transformative void
and beyond that
more crucibles
of beginnings,

smoldering without us,

and you know
your place in
the endless script
as you feel so vast
because you are
so small

and the ecstatic
terror of
glimpsing just
the outline
of the footprint
of a real God

shakes you

when you discover
oneness
is the best kept
secret
and you want
to fall,
crumbling,
to your knees

under
and within
it all . . .

that's when
you realize
you have
just prayed
for the first time
in your life.


Patricia Joan Jones