A friend gave me this picture,
that like Ezekiel's river from the temple
clear torrent of the Spirit pours down
the stony channels of our enterprise
our arguments amount
to a few old rusty implements, blunt shears and rakes
the river bed, and of no more use
than knives to slice waves from a waterfall. Here
sunny silence of a winter afternoon
outside this upper room the trees stretch out
supplication. These words are scattered
in the valley of dry bones, waiting
rustling of the wind of God, waiting
for the coming spring, the breath of Pentecost.
Ezekiel’s river cf the prophet’s vision in Ezekiel 47:1-12.
valley of dry bones cf Ezekiel 37:1-14.