Publish the Word
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Yeshua -- 29, Dreams

In the beginning. . .
was the word

 The Lord gave the word: great was the company of those that published it. Psalms 68:11

xxxix Dreams


He shared the Father's dream as he slept,

     the nightsky a sea, speckles the step-

stones to soundless emptiness beyond


the stellar blizzard, farther than his eyes'

     light-gathering would take him.  Here, he

had no measure for time, no point at which


air became rain, this separated into thatness.

     He was a word travelling inside a thought.

A sheep baaa'ed from a flock penned near.


Its musky ruff touched his dream less than

     a moment, and he was a new word

a world away, light without heat.  He wore


a robe of translucent blue water, an outer

     wrap of cirrus cloud, the wall of dark

of no substance.  Silence sounded more


like something he had heard, but where?

     And where was accouterment, even

type and endless, murderous epochs if not


spiralling toward him?  A distant, non-

     human scream flew past, a future

memory of a streaking searchbeam, but he


was flowing stillness in a woodland stream,

     trickles of thought, icy lucidity light vanished

into.  An orb of prismatic air edged up, hung


as a watermark below the surface's tension.

     Home was twelve breaths away.  He tried

to teach them, he remembered, wordless prayer,


but he had so few words to tell them how.  Was

     that a neighbor dog's incessant lament?  He

rolled over, sighed, thought himself a galaxy away.