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151: Snowfall

151 snowfall

I feel a tingling in the air that crackles at the ends of my fingers. I sense an electricity in the universe of love that vibrates my heart strings in a cadence of hopefulness – even in the midst of despair. It is like the sense of iron in the air before a thick snowstorm, or the bright whiteness of clouds about to burst with hail. That deep, magical half-light that is going to sparkle on some treasures and keep others in the dark. It is the crack in God’s voice as he speaks with love in his throat. It is the yearning expectation of every heart and heart’s eye looking to him in the midst of dreaded and dreadful times.

And the fear falls away as we look up into cavalcades of soft flakes, white covering blessings, crystal masterpieces, icy wonders, and we know and we see, and we cannot count them, only receive, and we hold out hands made holy by the cold light of heaven falling down to earth. We open our mouths and let the frozen breath of God the Father melt on our tongues into the Host of his Son, by the Holy Spirit who dances in the fizz of transformation, in the transubstantiation of ice into living water. And thus in this place of death we are given life and the thaw of our hearts begins. Life is beginning again. Taste the sharpness of blood, and see the world covered in a blanket of loving mercy.

 

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

 

 

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150: Tarmac

tarmac 150

In the bleakness of almost December I think back, I remember, as my skin cracks in the cold, those long summer days of melting heat, when I stretched too far for my own surface and ran liquid across the road. I think of the bicycle stands sinking slowly into the depths of tar, like maybe trapped dinosaurs once did, and of tyre tracks that span conglomerate up into the air, spitting back down like hot hail.

For the cold is here now causing me to huddle my black beauty around centres of strength, and the weak places split like an old man’s smile. Lined I am now by more than white apartheid borders, yellow forbidden zones and cats’ eyes down my spine. Are you on the left or right? Or do you travel a middle way? Whichever you are can you see that those on the other side are as right or left as you are? For the other is not always different, and the seasons pass, and the sun will warm my epidermis again, till I simmer with stickiness like a ready rice pudding, and sparkle in the sun.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015