Telling the Truth

(A poem for Pentecost.)

“Words written in the past are fixed,” he said, “the meaning

unchangeable; otherwise, you and I,

we have no truth to tell, only words,”

and we watched the sun slip its moorings and fall

behind the trees beyond the lilied lake; but

 

When inspiration fell like a satellite and blew their minds,

meaning was dynamic, sharpened and blunted,

lost and found in fifteen languages,

discordantly and gloriously disarrayed,

and truth broke loose, its spirit on fire.

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