Epiphany in Poetry

Tom Frank writes, “to grasp what makes a place itself, to name its distinctive qualities, is a task for poetics” (141). In this light, I wrote the following poem as a descriptor of my recent internship experience at the Episcopal Church of the Epiphany.

#317

Leaves of fire, trees of old,
The ground is crackling with the fresh falleness of a new autumn breeze.

A cross roads, an intersection,
A middle way made available by some pilgrim fore-bearers who not too long ago put an ebenezer on a corner.

Corner of a property. Corner of a city. Corner of some ancient place that seems at its core to invite all who hear into the mystery of a ritualed life.

Trees line the entry way to the many paths that make up this place,
enjoining together neighbors near and far.

Decaturites.
Candlerites.
Emorites.
Atlantians.

Druids with stories in their roots calling out louder than the radios of the fast paced pilgrims longing for a place to find.

Mystery.
Home.
God.
Tribe.
Other.
Way.

A way echoes from the hillside. The way. Your way. Her way. Ways in and out. Ways and means.

This way?
That way?
My way?

A crow flies, a squirrel barks, a bell tolls, a train rumbles, and the wind which blows marks them all with its coolness.

Epiphany!

—–

Thanks for stopping by!

JC