Grey fog hangs heavy,
hovers,
like a decision that eludes grasp.
Rays of our burning star break through,
dispersing fog,
yet, like a direction that flits finality,
reveals but familiar banalities.
Around said star,
earth orbits and rotates,
and still we speak of sunrise and sunsets …
routines in which, unchanged, we ever move.
Kairos, not chronos,
something new,
to scatter shibboleths.
So,
we wait,
uncomfortably together,
in a room too small,
trying to contain the damage,
until descends a Time,
a gift unmanaged …
Peace, unity, purity.
Michael Nelms is pastor of The Yellow Frame Church in Fredon, N.J.
