Skeptical Mystic
circle this steeple house
move in, peer tentatively
this glass is clear, not rosy stained
with filters meant to impose experience,
stage absent of spotlight, still
memories crescendo of manipulative music
seducing an emotional high
juxtaposed Pentecost—
we are not drunk
as you suppose
as into a pool, I slip unnoticed
side door, wade around the edge
watch, wait, test it—poised to escape
flood the margins with whispered queries
is it real? is it true?
is it packaged, produced, replicated
reverence? what do I witness?
listen, low expectations
toe baptism deepens
this is rare surrender, slide
further till submerged in Friends
we sit with it, convinced
to silence
gaze out, windows lucid
Light surrounds evergreen
cottonwood raining magic
like snow in warm slow-mo
covering our meeting, mystical fluffs
and I ponder all these
things in my heart
Joann Boswell in Cosmic Pockets
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