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| (Polk, Ohio - December 2010 - Ashland Railway - RWH) |
Next is
Epiphany.
Ecclesiastical
Latin for ‘revelation.’
It is the first of many days
along his living line that demands
a saving second
look.
That a light shines in all
shadows is no mere
mawkishness.
It is the unsettling promise
that sweet babies
become angry prophets
and hands swaddled in
such sentiment are the same
digits that touch the leprous lame.
Change is his disturbing way.
He was born to die. And
thus calls for cross.
His choice.
Ours.
So whatever
the shape of your 244,
whatever waits anxiously at
the cross(ing) bearing your name,
squint now and see epiphania
coming down your
languished
line.
All may be quiet, for now,
yes, hushed in the
platitudes of
holiday.
Hark, the Lord of Life
will rumble by soon enough.
There will at last be a sounding so
richly chord-full it will rattle the cochlea
and leave you ringing from
his unsettling choice
to change all
tombs.
That arriving would be our undoing
were it not for the gift of his
echoed next and new,
of a surprising
245.
