Pentecost

“The wind blows where it wills, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know whence it comes or whither it goes; so it is with every one who is born of the Spirit.” – John 3:8

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The wind wears the curtains like some ghostly dress
As in through the window it dons Sunday best.
And the leaves catch the breeze like the sails of a ship,
Each bough is a mast, every tree on a trip
To the Sun — host and altar — before whom to bow;
In the light of its rays they bend low and they vow
To atone for their brother upon whom God died,
And the wood of the spear that once piercèd His side.
(For the trees walk like men, and the men walk like trees,
Said the man who was blind but who now truly sees.)
And the gales chant their songs and their airs like a choir,
As the zephyrs bring incense from some nearby fire.
For the Winds of the World, they now have a new lord,
For the prince of the air has been slain by the sword
Of the breath of His mouth and the Spirit that blows,
Breathed forth like a torrent of red tongues that glow.