Upon the bed lies an empty bag
Warm beams stream from the pane
Empty corners, lovely spaces
Growth in those spaces
I perambulate this small square space
Eyes searching the sprawling forest
Of shirts, and ties, and shoes.
I ponder which of these
Should inhabit the bag’s empty corners
The spaces of growth
Shall I bring shirts of all colors,
Red, yellow, black, white
A radiant rainbow of vibrant life?
Shall I bring this vessel of dust?
Which bursts forth with Sacred Flow?
Which bursts forth with humanity?
Shall I bring the vessel that contains it all?
Shall I bring the soft soil that embraces my bare feet?
Shall I bring the verdant undergrowth?
Shall I bring wild light?
Shall I bring with me Sacred Life?
Shall I bring this bread and wine?
Shall I bring this holy water of death?
Shall I bring these sacramental paintings?
Shall I bear with me these portraits into life eternal?
Shall I bring books?
A Library of ancient wisdom?
A codex of bloody history?
Pages covered in folly, and joy,
Suffering, pain, loss
Enduring love and grace?
Placing them carefully within the empty corners
I see spaces fill
I see vines spring forth
Blooming and bearing
Sweet nectar runs down
Feeding and sustaining
The bag is complete
There is no more room
The forest of shirts lies barren
The empty corridors silence
Lays bear the old, tattered, refuse
That used to be y wardrobe
In the corner of the barren closet
lies a pure white shirt
Tattered and scorched
Ash marked and torn
Blood soaked and crumpled
and lying in shreds
On the shelf rests the shackles
Ages of injustice emanates
An book of European origins
Resides upon the floor
No sources give light
And no life takes flight from
It’s barren and decrepit pages
Remnants of empire is all that remains
Within that empty tome
A Throne for a king resides there also
Golden and splendid
The heads of calves for the arm to rest upon
Underneath the gold plating
The Blood of children cry out
The fire that they passed through
Consuming their souls
Containing them within it’s wretched, kingly vessel
As I shut the door on this lonely corridor
I hear the rattle
Soil begins seeping from the cracks
I hear the defiant yells
I see the blood shot eyes through the key hole
Then all is silent
As a grave in mid winter
I turn from that grave
And I pull the drawstrings tight
There is a heaviness and lightness to this pack
As dense as granite
As light as porous
This bag, this rock, is in forward motion
Leaving the bloody past in it’s grave
Finding a new plot from which a structure can be built
Growing out of the rock itself.
I go with it, holding it tightly and loosely
Feeling the weight and the lightness of it all
Never fully contained in this Rock
The vines creep through, bursting forth
Soon this rock will be too small, too weak, too fragile.
When that day comes, it will be time to pack once more
To move to the next structure that we will call home.
But for now, I will rejoice in the rock that I’ve found.