the witness
The whole of the sky is stretched thin, pinned
at its corners to the crooked frame of the shelter belt.
The light is pouring out of it and into me,
filling me with the distant, endless days
of a thousand galaxies expanding.
I become the torrent, the crush of so many
suns rushing across the canvas. This is the witness
that comes from standing still: the universe
is a host of cherubim, a congregation of eyes
surrounding a straw-littered throne. The ranks
of cattle nod at their posts, and the night whispers
'holy, holy, holy' until the fields are laden with snow.
This poem is from one of my Advent cycles. You can find last year’s cycle here:
I get full body chills when I ready your poems. they're animate
Hello Chris, liked this poem A LOT. Uncle Rick.