when prophets are denied,
as they so often are,
they shake the dust from their sandals
and board when their rows are called.
watching from your plane, you see
the mountains shepherd the sunset into darkness.
lightning drives cracks into the midnight sky.
just for a moment the vast forest
is there -
followed by thunder that rolls away
like a resurrection.
when a wind comes hurling accusations
against your plane, the trees huddled
on the mountainside suddenly seem
in denver, brushing tears
from your eyes, you exit the plane, and
discover you were never in
any real danger after all
for in a room at the airport,
in a gathering of two or three,
the bread and wine are
freely given to you
so that the darkness is pierced,
and through this wound in the sky,
the moon rises.
Visit sarcastic lutheran to read the post that inspired the poem.