What Shall I Cry?

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’s light?

Did I wake?
Survive the fury?
Hear that voice repeating,
“Are You Ready? Are You Ready?”

Was it real?
Was it Isaiah? Some random voice?

“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?”

What shall I cry!

— November 2025 —