A skipping stone, chosen with care by human hand, breaks the still glass of lake serene; for stones remember what time forgets, and in their flight, recall all the more.
What does it remember? The molten cradle of its birth beneath the sea, the mountain’s shattering rise from the deep, the patient sleep in riverbed and shore. The warmth of the palm that cast it forth, the whisper of air between each skip— and how, in falling, it becomes again what it has always been: stillness beneath all motion.
Nabataean temple ruins at Khirbet et-Tannur, Jordan. The temple may have been dedicated to the goddess Atargatis (see McKenzie et al. 2002; Almasri 2019).
When the Rains Come
When the rains come … the dust shall become mud, When the rains come … the mud shall become mire, And the feet of the proud shall sink to the ankle, And their words shall cling like clay to their tongues.
When the rains come … the roofs shall tremble, The cisterns shall overflow their stone mouths, And the low places shall remember the sea, Calling out to the deep from which they were torn.
When the rains come … the idols shall dim, Their painted eyes veiled in silt and silence, And the temples shall weep through broken eaves, For their gods shall not answer from the thunder.
When the rains come … the earth shall be heavy, And the hearts of men heavier still; The widow shall draw her shawl to her face, And the child shall forget the taste of dry bread.
When the rains come … we shall huddle together, Beholding the waters erase our names from the doorposts, And none shall boast of his harvest, For the river shall take what it wills, Bearing all things toward the forgetting sea.
When the Sun Is Restored
When the sun is restored … the waters shall fade, When the sun is restored … the mire shall break and sigh, And the earth shall stir beneath the plough, Breathing again as if reborn.
When the sun is restored … warmth shall come first, A balm to the chilled and the shivering earth; Green shall rise from the broken furrows, And the people shall bless the light.
When the sun is restored … the fields shall swell, The ears grow heavy, the vines bend low; And laughter shall echo in the threshing floor, Till the grain lies fuller than the granaries can hold.
And in the noonday brightness the sparrows fell silent, For they knew the hour would not endure.
When the sun is restored … the rivers shall dwindle, The soil yawn open like a parched mouth, And famine shall creep from the roots of plenty, Taking the firstborn of abundance.
When the sun is restored … the hearts of men shall fail, Their tongues cleaving to the roofs of their mouths; And the widow shall weep no longer, For her tears have been taken by the wind.
When the sun is restored … we shall gather at the well, Staring into its empty throat, And all shall return to dust, For from dust were we raised, and to dust we descend; And we lift parched hands, as if exalting to heaven for rain, That the circle may begin again.
When the Silence Falls
When the silence falls … the people shall gather, Not in joy nor mourning, but in stillness; And the priests shall stand before the altar, Their hands empty of offerings.
When the silence falls … the incense shall not rise, For no prayer shall remain upon our lips; We have cried out in the rains and cursed in the drought, And now we have no words to give.
When the silence falls … the children shall ask, “Why do we come to this place?” And the elders shall have no answer, For the stones themselves have forgotten their purpose.
When the silence falls … the priests shall look upon each other, And see their own faces as through water; They shall remember the prayers they learned as boys, And wonder if the words were ever heard.
When the silence falls … we shall see what we have built— Altars worn smooth by our hands, Bowls that held grain and oil and blood, All the bargaining of our fathers with the sky.
When the silence falls … no voice shall descend, Neither blessing nor judgment from above; And we shall know that we stand alone, Between the rain we fear and the sun we cannot bear, Waiting in the house we made for a goddess Who has not spoken in living memory.
The Angel of Death Victorious is a bronze funerary sculpture with a marble base, created in 1923 by Herman Matzen. It was commissioned by Francis Henry Haserot after his wife’s passing and is located in Lake View Cemetery, Cleveland, Ohio. The photograph was taken by Rosette Doyle.
Yet we keep calling them down, hoping for comfort, dreaming of radiance.
They arrive without warning, bearing weight, not mercy: the silence that collapses sound, the gaze that unravels marrow.
We tremble, for their wings are woven of light we cannot bear to see, of shadow we cannot learn to name.
What they touch is never the same. A tree becomes flame. A breath becomes prayer. A man becomes dust.
But is this terror for one heart alone? No—their shadow falls on cities and nations, their silence unsettles centuries.
They do not stoop to whisper comfort. They stride through millennia, their wings stirring wars and kingdoms, their silence heavier than empires.
Temples tremble, mountains bow down, a bell falls silent in the square, the proud are unmade by a glance that knows no compromise.
Still, we call them down, for without their terror we would never glimpse the depth of beauty, nor know that awe and fear are one.
Awe belongs not to possession, nor fear to a single soul, but to the common lot of mortals who stand together before the unendurable.
I saw it—yes—just there, in the silence between breaths: a blade of grass bowed not by wind but by a single flicker of light, that tender emissary of dusk— the lightning bug, that priest of fire who blesses every meadow.
O you small bearer of green and gold, what vast wisdom coils within your tiny belly? What songs do you blink to the darkened world, what truths do you flash to the blade you hold?
I, too, have grasped the green earth in my palm— felt its tremble and thrum, watched a whole summer declare itself in the way grass leans toward starlight.
Do not speak to me of empires and theories— tell me instead how the hush after thunder is where the soul begins, how the firefly remembers the sun, and carries its pulse through the hollows of night.
Here is your scripture: dew-wet grass, the pulse of insect wings, the scent of warm loam rising at twilight— and yes, the low chant of crickets, singing hosannas in the key of soil.
I stand barefoot in this republic of clover, declaring allegiance to the unnoticed: to the tree frog’s stillness near an old stump, the clover’s soft petition beneath my heel, the breeze that forgets no leaf, the dandelion seed drifting without regret, the shimmer barely seen, the flash in the periphery, the small, bright pulse that stirs the dusk and reminds me—ah!—I am alive.
For is it not enough to say: a lightning bug chose a blade of grass, and that was revelation?
“The way up and the way down are one and the same.” —Heraclitus, Fragment 60 (Diels–Kranz); cf. Fragment 69 (Kirk & Raven)
When the mind enclosed reels, the frame gives way— No border left to mark the night from day. No cry, no anchor, only this descent Where meaning bleeds and thought is all but spent.
It is not drift, but failure to remain— The loosening of self from shape, from name. It does not seek, nor struggle, nor insist— It simply ceases, lost beyond all reach.
No wind attends, no witness marks the trace, No voice declares the vanishing of place. The silence is not peace, but what survives When all the scaffolds break, and none revives.
No hand to hold, no vow left to defend— One thought still clings—then breaks before the bend. Just falling, falling, not to sky or land, But into being none can understand.
Northcoast Antiquarian 