Tabernacle

This crisp, frost tinged sprig

shoots forth from

harsh ground

and I gape, staring

in awe of its substance,

fire ready to lick clean

the fine covering

it wears, unaware

its fragile sheath 

is so paper thin

Layers of bark

peeled like skin

from a ripe apple

exposing white flesh, sweet

under chicory and smoke;

curtains split to reveal

a priest-ed marionette, dancing

before mirrors,

holding a covenant goblet

under the sway of

gibbous moon

It is just me

It is just all of us

here, in the heart of Oz

pushing buttons

aloft in unfurled balloon

a finely lit capsule,

holding up a staff, like Aaron

wishing for any way

home

All we need

is a hearth that burns-

bright shadows on a wall-

dancing images, twirling-

haunting music preening

and a bright fire

in a bush-

touching the air of morning

that cries, that screams-

that does not

take us with it