Yahweh was a cloudrider when the sky was young.
Jesus’s dad could throw lightning with the best of them.
The sky wasn’t really young then.
An eternity of sunrises had already passed before the Most High ruled Canaan,
And before that, an eternity of whatever markers of time existed before the sun.
We’ve tamed the wild gods,
Taught them Greek philosophy,
Early Modern English prosody,
Now we gather at the end of year,
Hold candles and sing quiet, still songs.
Where are the prayers sung an ocean away?
They are voices within no walls,
Passions lost to generations,
Echoes no longer heard.
Photo by Eddie Gerald
