How would it feel, then. to live
in that God-shaken house?
To feel the wind,
like the very breath of life,
like the stirring of the
deep before time,
gusting through these small
daily rooms, clattering and pressing
against doors and shutters,
not to be contained?
How would it feel to look up, eyes
dried by wind force,
and see fire falling, flames bright
and crackling, and resting with
heat that does not burn on each
wondrous head?
To be blown open
lock-sprung
lifted
with wild reckless joy
as words tumble out into
the clear singing light?
It would feel like this,
it feels like this,
and it is still only morning.