Tuesday in the Third Week of Advent

Fine Particulate Matter
by Ron Cebik


I am made of stuff ,
Fine particulate matter,
Or so I was told
By the somber minister
As she made a mark
Drawing a cross on my brow 
With black soot and grease 
Made holy by some bishop 
Unaware of death
Having left its dark icon 
Beneath the surface
Indelibly on the soul
Immune to dogmas
Meant to calm the anxious heart
Beating to order
Warriors that take up arms 
Against the assaults
Fearful institutions wage
Lest the free walk out
Into the daylight of truth
That o ers nothing, 
Demanding everything 
Excepting the soul,
Yours to keep until the day
It is given up
In the blowing winds of change, 
Breaking forever
The mold you made to hold
The pearl of great price,
Fine particulate matter, 
Dancing in the wind, 
Grounded in sacred memories 
Balancing our lives
On the edge of not knowing 
And uncertain faith,
We seek our unique meaning 
In the swirling dust
Shifting shapes before our eyes 
Preventing contact
With anything substantial
To a rm the truth
We are more than what we seem.

Thus again we kneel
Receiving the timeless sign
Only others see
Hidden from our line of sight, 
Blessed denial
Of how fragile the life we hold 
Together in hope
The time will never arrive
When the black thumb leafs 
Through the prayer book searching 
The proper collect
To signify it is now
The journey begins
To the edge of what lies beyond

Imagination.

©Ron Cebik 2008