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Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Poem 030

The Myrtle Calls
The whispering Word ripples across
A withered world: endlessly
Yearning days, weeks,
Months, years,
Promises wallowed in accumulated grime surface into memory
And harmonize with dust-cracked lips.
Champagne rivers sprout in Jerusalem;
Just beyond this threshold
They christen a new Eden.
Come in!
Echoing crags sing out for you to echo
The echoed beat of trees now clapping
With fruited joy for you.
Go out!
See Zion’s garden walls stretching beneath the overflow,
Rolling forward before the surge.
Why linger in the rapidly surrendering waste
Until the blanketing streams seam Earth in,
You out?
One crypt split once
To snap this garden’s gate.
Now clinging to its frame, I cry:
Just look!
The door stands

Bryn Phinney of Redstone, Colorado was a member of the original Festival Circle at the Festival of Faith & Writing where this project was first introduced. She is a writing major at Wheaton College in Illinois. "The Myrtle Calls" echoes from Isaiah 55: 13.