A Poem: At my Hearth

Somehow,

although I recognise you can still
arrive swift as flood or fire,
somehow, I think you come
more often through the back door;

while I seek out signs and wonders
you’ve already appeared,
and at the altar of my heart
have lit the hearth.

And my house,

to which you sit expectant
of my hospitality,
may not rival other structures
built to hold your glory;

so neither does
the forest’s roof and floor,
yet it holds a thousand species
within its flora and fauna.

So I think perhaps

my home might be good enough for you.
The Pentecostal flame,
that manifests your Spirit’s sudden coming,
is not just witnessed in a strike of lightening;

but more often perhaps
as the slow building burn,
of a fire set with kindling
upon which your breath has blown.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
Pentecost Sunday
June 2017

Image: Kathryn Beals, Fireflies 

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