White Sunday 26 (Pentecost)

This is my Pentecost. Not in chronos, but kairos.
This is important. This. You. How the pieces fit,
not in the force-them-in-and-we'll-work-it-out-later way
that so many people can live with, but how they fall
together. Effortlessly, for now. No doubt there will be
times ahead where things tilt a bit like everything does
or even we find the tunnel of love is a corkscrew.
But if we ride the moment and trust, just enough,
we'll be fine, like lemon wine. I need this kiss.
I need to see you dance once more, barefoot,
catching my whim and will as I imagine centering
myself in the way you move your graceful hips,
trusting your lips don't lie in word or parting
to slide breath between us. Cinnamon dust
and the morning light, a rose on a silver tray,
the way things are supposed to be if we believe.
Grieving over lost and caustic causes, pauses
in the slipstream of the wind of Icarus.
You will find me. Bind me. Grind me.
But in the end I will say it was you you defined me.
For that is the ultimate purpose of a Pentecost.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.