A Walk in the Son
Trudging out pacing
The present dark presses in
Betrayal failing
A joining an opening
Broken bread reveals the word
By: Matthew Robinson
Darkness fills this place, a
void, an absence
So strong as to be palpable. It’s
strange
Encompassed by this stringent lack
of sense.
In the blackness, hoping, aching
for change
Of some sort. Of an alteration
some dreamed
Of desire for a vague tomorrow
Dimly heard in quiet whispers it
seemed.
But now, only grimness, only
sorrow.
No shaft of light, only heavy
stillness
Permeates this gloomy space of weeping
For what seemed so hopeful full of
richness
And light is gone leaving only mourning.
I hold in the tiny plastic
communion cup
A
red and full bodied sip of the son.
Should
the father of light be Riesling White?
But what about the spirit bubbling
up,
A
bursting forth to comfort everyone,
A
sparkling wine full of sweetness, and light.
The preacher continues with
chalice lifted high.
All
will sip their portion when he is done.
So
small a cup holds such power and might.
The red, white, and effervescent
all cry,
Made
right!
By Matthew Robinson
The wind scrabbles against the
glass and door,
As low sling clouds scurry past
spitting snow.
The kids at school, soft quiet
reigns once more.
A mellow tick counts the time
soft and low.
While an old smoky group of logs
grumble
On the grate over ruddy coals of
old
Friends dying with a despairing mumble
Into ash, pushing hard against
the cold.
The debris of lunch remains on
the dusty
Red brick hearth in front of two
old rockers.
One a mission, worn and trusty,
The other, poorly assembled by a
lay stocker.
Each
hold two friends who watch the fire
Whose
dying flames fan embers of desire.
By: Matthew E. Robinson
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