Sorrow at the Alter Tree

Here, at last, in the Holy Place! 

As I reach out toward the altar, 

A gentle wind pushes back against my hands. 

  

The wind is empty, echoing in my 

hollow heart like a sigh.  

The sigh of angles, but absent the  

vibration of the stings.  

A kneeling supplicant, I am mocked for the fullness denied me.  

  

Mighty music, rolling harmonic chords riding that wind,  

leave a sweet taste in my mouth.  

No flaming coals for this prophet. 

With no suffering, how can I expect epiphany? 

  

Kneeling, and shuttering from the chill of that wind. 

I am unable to lift my eyes.  

Why, here in the Holy Place, am laid prone for the shame of ungodliness; 

since that was the reason for seeking it out? 

Rolling harmonics change. Notes, high and shrill 

as as a pointing finger - louder, higher, purer, they drive at me. 

I run, and run, and run!  

  

Some long time later, gulping guilty breaths, I sink - 

surrounded by a still and heavy fecundity; 

massive enough that the potency of neither wind or harmony 

can pierce. 

 

Here, at last - the Temple of the Trees is found. 

A space full with life, begging for meaning; 

a perfect analogy, absent context. 

Produced from my pack, the sacrilege of my flute 

sounds the first breath of being here. 

Imperfect, but ripe with life and all things possible. 

My humanity is not a crime. 

  

It is here I sit writing.