Yesterday I decided to go for a short walk. Over an hour and a half later, I was on my seventh mile. And to think, I got funny looks from the people I passed. Yes, I was running. Yes, in funny runners attire. Yes, in jeans, in knee high black leather boots, in fancy blouse, in faded blue sweater tied round my neck, (just like I was rich and famous). But I simply couldn't help myself. The sky, wind, sun, breeze, all that was in the air, declared, evoked, even demanded my attention. But I sure was at ease, trotting along that path, lined with moss the color of undercooked peas.
Perhaps I looked silly, perhaps a bit gay, but no holds were barred in echoing that Day. Twists and wide turns, weaves and bent wreathes, summoned and wooed, my walk to a breeze. My amble became a bit of a run, was done without plan, and thought of but one.
You know what I mean, the drawing of God, the whisper, the call, the altar from sod. That held up the tree, that tore down the curtain, that danced upon Mary, her visiting vision. Winged men I once saw, hovering way overhead, had come to bring solace, to His great, now dead. The choirs sang glory, ther'll be no more mourning, and the trees scattered round, retold his great story.
And where was I now in retelling my story, of a funny young girl, looking more like a bunny. So she answered the trees with their yet to be leaves, and danced right along in those jeans by the peas. Each stride and each draw, each glance and each stance, she soon became lost and drunken in chance. Strands whipping, cutting, the lows of her back, sun light breaking round, a nimbus of Might.
Whipping back, whipping forth, the people did stare, but what shall I profit? What shall I care? Black ones and white, yellow with brown, passing me by and panting aloud. Tangled down deep, the roots of despair, crowding the family and shrouding the hare. White as pure gold, with whiskers like sin, she should have just done as her Good Father did. Thy Good book will tell, a tale saved from hell, salvages beasts and summons the least.
Passing the trees, cocooning the plea's, the blood of the Lamb, slaughtered for peace. Doorposts above, priests down below, daughters of fishers, rigmarole. Like loosing your vision in blinding white sun, an old comfort inn, filled with poor souls and mine. "Hosanna, Hosanna!" The girls then did scream, in hovering presence, he answered their plea. The young ones, the old, the seasoned and stale, they transformed to beauty, with wind in their sail. "To glory, to glory!" with arms like great wings, they soared to his footstool, with mercy and ease.
And bowing to speak, or muster a peek, his greatness so gentle, drew even the weak. Like morning and daybreak, the dance after night, he's conquered with splendor and risen with might. And mile number seven, the horsemen and heaven, she'd finished her stint, revering her bout. Echoes within and screams without, he loved her, he loved her, this was no doubt.