When the rhythm of the sea
ripples against your knee,
and the pull of the moon
kindles your deepest swoon,
and heavens’ ladder falls
tinkling as scales from saint paul;
your eyes, brand spanking new,
see in a different hue.

And that open tomb
lies empty as a barren womb.
And Rachel’s cries are quieted,
for comfort is but trumpeted.

For the dream of the cloud
is to carry the Son;
and the dream of the mount
to reach for the One.
as the dream of the lamb
is to lay by the lion.

For David’s dance continues
despite Michal’s red hues,
and the sea’s song still rings
in the ears of all kings,
as the youngest yet question
in light of the goshen.

For trumpet not sounded
has already founded
quires compounded.

© rl busséll 2017