Spirit Of All That Exists...

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
On the spirit of all that exists...

Submitted: July 19, 2010

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Submitted: July 19, 2010



Spirit of all that exists... (1976-2010)

Sun, benevolent star, closest one of our galaxy's bright array, gather all that live to your motionless view, that mindless contemplation, which gazes long and fixed into the strange haze from which there is no heat, yet sears, no substance, yet energizes, making its pure physics appear to the conscious and the not and bonding the vast expanse from land to sea and sky to space, as this aerial grace is held suspended until night's velvet shadows are vanquished anew by day's dawning rays. No rival has this single faith, no fate from which race, but calm and serene as the sky on a peaceful day, lulling clouds bathe all that await below with its potent breath.

Hovering above the Earth's climes, after the rain is diffused from lofty peaks to rest on the fertile fields and grail-like lakes below, the arched pageant wheel of the rainbow's spectral trail illuminates a world dissolved into fugitive hues, mists of shimmering white, gleams of yellow, belts of gradated coral, air streams of florescent pink and fiery reds that wrap into bands at the horizon, and pour into the back-lit sea like different-colored marbles being stirred, linking the waters of merging oceans, as they run into land with the tide, filling the basins, bays and estuaries with traces of windblown seeds that spin on the surface in a slow, lazy gyre.

Inspired one, can there be any finer interest, than to look upon these seeds and wonder which grain will grow and which will not, whose mortal strength will bring light to the world and restore lost Eden from Chaos? Imagine a habitat fit for the gods, which, so short a time before was bleak and frozen. What was desert and barren now bloomed with the most beautiful flowers and greenery. Birds sang, and leaves began to bud forth on trees. This is the region, this is the soil, this is the climate that is the seat of Heaven. How beautiful it is, how radiant in all its splendor! How beautiful it is, how joyful! Full of power and health! Happy Earth!

A hallowed state of perpetual springtime, creating a paradisiacal garden tended by our grandparents. The human spirit was elevated by the enchanting appearance of nature, the past blotted out from their memory, the present was now tranquil, and the future gilded by bright rays of hope and anticipation of joy. Human senses were gratified and refreshed by a thousand scents of delight and thousand sights of beauty. People who before the change had hidden in caves dispersed and were now employed in various arts of cultivation. Through the life and spirit of all growing things, they fed themselves on the Earth's sovereignty and produce, various grains, fruits and herbs.

History began for each of us on one of those early days, the remembrance of human things past, as fresh today as a red-breast oracle of singing hours, sang through the morning, all bright and glittering in the steaming air. Never did our sun shine so beautiful, over nature's silence, green valley, lakes and streams. Never seen or felt so intense and deep, like this glorious design laying still. How significant then, when a family rested from their labors: the mother and father, a simple pair, who discovered with great delight that one does not love one's children just because they are one's offspring, but because of the friendships made while raising them.

Mother sat by while Father piped songs of glee, and their children listened to him. He saw that his son was melancholy beyond expression and signed frequently. He knew why. Earlier, they were looking after their flock who felt very sorry for themselves in the rain. With their fleeces sopping wet, the sheep huddled in the hollows, or close to the bramble bushes, or on the leeward side of the slope, too dispirited to graze. Even the lambs were subdued, hiding beneath their mothers. He heard the bleating of a sheep in distress, and went to the edge of a cliff, and looked over. The animal lay on its side halfway down, balancing on the steep bank, one foreleg at an awkward angle.

Father went down to it, treading cautiously, and examined the leg. \"Mutton tonight,\" he called to his son. The boy out his knife and handed it down to him. Then he watched as his father put the sheep, which had been called Sarah from its birth, out of it misery. And that caused the boy to think about contrary truths, the innocent faith of childhood and the facts of suffering and death that an adult must learn to face, so that when he looked into his father's eyes, which gazed steadily into his while the bare branches of the trees on the hillside stood trembling in the wind. Pale dew dripped from leaf to leaf and bees flitted woozily from bloom to bloom, as he gave himself up to the memory of it. Amen.

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