Fourth Sunday of Epiphany

by owlsofthewild

I am told to breathe

to the rhythm of a hammer and anvil

like a clock clanging not quite

in waking nor wholly in dreams.

 

Kneeling. Prayerful hands pleading

too loudly, the second hand resounding

            in the silence. Kneeling

 

here on a thinly carpeted, unforgiving floor,

past and future, ancient and unborn

impugn upon the present, disrupting

the tempo of the march of saints.

            I almost miss it.

 

I crumple the epiphany and

thrust it into a pocket

            and pretend

 

that truth is in the silence,

rather than creased and wrinkled,

desecrated in the lining of my jeans.

 

But if I continue striving to remain static,

in the end I’ll enter glory an unfinished statue.

Forever giving, never added to;

a textureless face with insufficient features painted

            on like wood-grain linoleum.

 

We sense it in the clanging and cringe.

“Seek quietude,” the billboards bray.

We follow, until on a quiet Sunday afternoon

we empty our pockets in the wash

to find a pallid epiphany washed out

            with the loose change.