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.