This morning, the rains practice their rhythms on the skylights
That had let the day inside all night long, but somehow a dream
Found me. Now, with the rain I practice my craft of singing
Words over emotions and memories as they fall down to earth
Looking for a puddle to gather and be stomped in by a child
Who wants to see what mud splatters will say, dried on the wall.
The dream that found me had been sitting like a solitary soul
Somewhere on the broken landscape inside Thingvellir Rift
When the playful child god inhabited my solemn grey frame
And taught me how to play again with my children after hiding
In a cave that stank of piss, lurking, a tiny monster to scare
The first child who dared walk past my home, unsuspecting.
Too late, they had become suspecting of the playful father
Recalled from Tiger Wrestles and indoor basement camping
And found my hiding spot first. I walked out before they became
Aware of how tired I had become of sitting alone inside my piss.
This was not the dream. From behind the rift wall, a tectonic
Movement occurred inside, 2 cm a year I had been pulled apart.
In the gap the ocean had filled, glacial melt so clear yet so cold
You could see the bottom 46 feet down, it looked like a hand
Could reach inside to pick the lucky coins now a part of earth’s
Slow history, someday to tell the story of how God’s patient rip
Tore open the flesh so called perfect gods hid behind, aware
The fissures in the facade were cracking like broken porcelain.
In seconds, though, God wrapped his hand around my heart
Began to squeeze so hard to make me stop and listen to Him.
Look out across my broken landscapes, Son, and see beauty:
Each crack in the earth, the sharp uneven rocks, every weed
Awaits your naked feet. Be brave. I unbuttoned the costume
Seeing in front of me the first rock that looked stable enough.
Photo by me.