pentecost

it was the peak of summer

and they were all gathered in one place

the trees

and their leaves

by the stream

waiting for something

out of heaven

a star

perhaps

or a sign

waiting

as he who waits upon the Lord waits

green and immovable

when the sudden moon rose

and a chill fell

and with it 

a rushing wind from beyond

roaring

in a thousand distant tongues

the secrets of another sky

and the breadth of unknown spheres

and fire danced in the trees

ignited by the holiness

the otherness

of an unworldly speech

cold and empty

dry and bitter

unpolluted in its abstractedness

and nothing like a wheelbarrow

red or not

but the effect was still the same upon me

for the trees spun one thousand images

through every spoke of autumn color

and each was

indecipherable in its completeness

though none of them were drunk

as it was only noon.