Pentecost

It began with a word
spoken then written
finally seared into flesh.

A word like the wind
weaving between us
between everything

where beginning is end
end a beginning
and we, one mess

of mixed material,
miraculously maintain heat.
This mystery, this puzzle

of the Pneuma seeks
neither solving nor
secure mounting

on a block of wood—
an icon for a fixed gaze.
It lives

in the wrapping of your arms
around my shoulders,
my warm breath

on your neck,
your heart pounding
in my chest.

Published by asaur