Friday, September 11, 2009

the rose

In the sand, the storms, the snow
It grows;
Where concrete meets the lean line
Of green, a seed waiting, listening for a whispered word: why not here?
It grows;
When history meets the darkened veil of a time
When ships of precious cargo
that weren’t expected to comesailed in chained and bound, yet not broken
It grows;
A fluttering prayer
A beating wish
A railing arm
The hands of grandma still smooth
In all the rough places
Pressed together like petals
Praying for rain, rain, rain
To fall upon her grandson It grows;
In the quiet of that 2 am madness
When all the earth is stirring, yet still
And the corners of your mind fold into
The questions you never dared to ask yourself
It grows;In the electric flight of the feeble hand
Of a 106 year old queen
Who pressed a silver screen
Electing to choose a 400 year old promise
Over an age old lie
It grows;
Gracefully; a brown hand of
A global ghetto child
On a roof top over looking the over skyline
Eyes watching God, bigger than you can see
smaller than you can hope
It grows;
In the moment when seeing is no longer believing
And believing is no longer knowing
And knowing is a street number
To a house with more rooms than can be counted or viewed
Asking you to remove your shoes
And enter the holy groundIt grows;
The pattern of the stars
Outlined stitches in time
Stitches dropped into the ear of
Patterned faith cut into
Northern stars leading to a freedom unseen
It grows;
The echo of a heart as it craves the very essence of
The thing that must fill Its drum
It grows;
In a still small place
On Calvary
When the waiting of the world
Hung like a sentence cut mid-
It grows;
Here lies the rose of Sharon
The lily of the valley
Growing in the places

That they said nothing good could come.

Thrusting it’s yellow limbs like rays into the draped darkened corners where the hunger hungit has begun;
the saying to the world
rise and shine
I am the one
I am the one
Who will grow in the sand, and the storms and the snows
While the soil may claim ignorance
The sun knowsIn a world filled with darkness
The light is more beautiful because we know
beauty comes from broken things
and the common spaces
are the dwelling grounds for uncommon kings
the song of the coldest winter
preludes the opus of the spring
and it
It grows.
it grows.
it grows.