Dance of All This

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Listening to the Lights in the Trees

With forehead pressed against the trunk

Where the music is embedded,

I make this request: “Please, sing to me about your angels.”

 

The slender tree responds with percussive impulse,

Pushing me squarely back,

Flaying my chest, exposing my heart,

Invisible wings flexing from shoulder blades.

A cacophony of sounds and light flash through me,

Full on, but

Indecipherable.

 

I back off.

Old trees offer more seasoned melodies, I hope.

 

Gingerly stepping over gnarly roots to a

Welcoming section with thicker waist,

Gently placing my brow in contact with the weathered bark,

Silently, I ask.

 

This time I find myself in the heart of God,

Wings still flexing from my shoulders.

And the messenger says, “The ballad is more than can be sung

In a single verse.

Our angels require you sit

In communion with us

Throughout your life

In order to internalize the lyrics

Of that which you desire.

 

It’s complicated.”

 

--Zan Lombardo, 2018

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