Things are right, especially when they're not, and that's a bit of good news, isn't it? That I can wash my hands in the river of peace, resting on bended knee, even in the depths of August drought?
That I can embrace my jealous lover and be embraced with unmistakable passion in return, even as I hear the echo of the only two feet in the room reaching the only two ears.
That the very same mouth which only yesterday spoke fallacies as fact and fictions as Truth can today produce words as True and bold as the red on a fallen soldier's pierced lapel.
And this not of my own strength or wisdom, this not borne of my own devices or desires, but given unmerited and received ungracefully from a source whose reserves supply races, nations, kings, and beggars alike.
Not an ounce of good am I capable of producing on command, yet fruit grown out of the dead and buried seed presses through my branches and grows too large for my arms to support, for it is meant to fall.
16 March 2010
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