by Gabe McMahan
This poem was printed in Summoning Advent Stillness, page 27.
Not the wheat or bread, but the field, fallow.
Not the brazed meats wafting up their billows,
but the sky… the empty heavens breaking
cloud from cloud. The silence after a song,
before thunder; before the gathered rain.
Before the carpenter, the wood’s soft grain
un-chiselled… That’s our guide! The marbled stone.
The trackless sea-bank where we walk alone,
and listen. Come in from your bustling streets
and tell me what you know. I’ll wash your feet.
I’ll kiss you, and you will be my brother,
my sister, father, beloved mother,
and all. Friend, you are a dove taken wing.
Sit with me and pray. Say nothing… Nothing.
Gabriel McMahan lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. He likes to dance, play with words, and dig in the dirt. When he sits in the quiet, on this particular morning, he hears wind-chimes, leaf-rustle, and distant cars.