Gentlest alchemy of air, the early magnolias maintain their aromatic lamp-bowls aloft at nightfall, defying March. Can’t be snowing, but it’s— within the cloud areas, the downrush of chilly
halts abruptly as a flurry tenders the wind. Pausing on the window, I echo, it’s snowing, and also you say, no, it can’t be true. It’s not. We see the day floating from reality to reality
on a reel of shared expertise, the place God holds all reality as one singularity flashing body by body, the little ashes of our lives. I whisper, transience—I marvel to know
how did I ever get to be a half century outdated? How will we fly from right here to the opposite aspect? Will our our bodies rise within the air to satisfy Christ? Or will we sleep for a very long time, then waken?
This isn’t eschatological climate, you demur. It’s, I say. We’re to be prepared for the return, at all times. Will we wish to be with out lamp oil, our wicks untrimmed? Hear, don’t we hear
magnolias buzzing exterior with the moon sidling into the cloudbank of sugary mild? Blossoms sing, the time is now—and now— now once more forevermore, my dears. Selah.
