Was it a dream? On my knees,
On Pentecost?
The house shuddering, rearing up into the storm,
Looming over me,
A coarsening, dark funnel swallowing up the morning light?

Did I wake?
Survive the fury?
Hear that voice
repeating
(Was it some random voice?)
“Are You ready?”

Or was it you? Isaiah!

“What shall I cry?
When all flesh is grass and all its beauty is like the flower of the field,
the grass withers, and the flower fades?”

Was it you?

— November 2025 —