Gathering Together

          Three Degrees Of Freedom by Theresa C. Newbill

The sound of an old harmonica playing 
whistles up the wind from wood- 
churned paths, instructing me not to 
fear the joy of contemplation. Myrrh, 
Tansy, Violets, the black cloth of earth 
you loved, cover me with the stain of 
of your skin, the leap of faith, the leap 
of trust; blue residue under the protective 
arc of a Rowan Tree, clings like the scent 
of wet fog, as tranquility precipitates the 
effects of moonlight, radiant with memory. 
Everything we've touched has burned 
away. Only when I close my eyes to 
the material world is when I see the 
invincibility of a broken branch. So, I 
walk and follow the path giving myself 
up to God, wondering if he will forsake me 
for another more worthy, slowly letting the 
pain flow out of me, along with a rivulet 
of purifying sweat. I sculpt what's missing 
in my blindness and let your voice revolve 
around me in the darkness. Between words, 
between the lines of what is permissible 
and plausible, I begin to understand the 
three degrees of freedom. Spirit enters us 
through birth, life and death, one beautiful 
cell at a time.