Walking on the Water of This Moment

By Ken Woodley

My ark is sinking,

the world around me 

coming apart at the seams,

colors receding everywhere,

directionless

and without meaning.

The sky is a riptide

of green-becoming-violet

and then nothing

but an empty box waiting

for my ashes and dust.

The non-colors begin breaking through

and soak up anything that retains 

the slightest slivered hue 

of the storm-ending rainbow

for which I prayed.

A dove falls at my feet,

wings spread

but motionless,

exhausted.

The Anti-Color sounds its trumpet

as Jericho’s walls begin to re-assemble and rise

on stones of darkness.

I gently lift the dove

and hold it in my hands.

Something falls from its beak.

A torn petal from the final flower.

I pick it up,

my ark about to go under,

and decide,

as the water rises around me, 

to some how, some day

become its stem.

In the quiet stillness of that faith

a voice speaks to my soul.

The gardener of Golgotha.

“Walk on the water of this moment,” he tells me 

as my ark disappears beneath the sea. 

I take a tentative step.

Then another.

Not sinking.

Now I’m striding

toward the distant mountains

of a sudden shoreline.

Just like he said I could,

holding the dove against my chest,

feeling all the colors of his love.

Some day the torn petal will bloom.

One day we all will.

Walking on the water of our moment.

By Ken Woodley

My ark is sinking,
the world around me
coming apart at the seams,
colors receding everywhere,
directionless
and without meaning.
The sky is a riptide
of green-becoming-violet
and then nothing
but an empty box waiting
for my ashes and dust.
The non-colors begin breaking through
and soak up anything that retains
the slightest slivered hue
of the storm-ending rainbow
for which I prayed.
A dove falls at my feet,
wings spread
but motionless,
exhausted.
The Anti-Color sounds its trumpet
as Jericho’s walls begin to re-assemble and rise
on stones of darkness.
I gently lift the dove
and hold it in my hands.
Something falls from its beak.
A torn petal from the final flower.
I pick it up,
my ark about to go under,
and decide,
as the water rises around me,
to some how, some day
become its stem.
In the quiet stillness of that faith
a voice speaks to my soul.
The gardener of Golgotha.
“Walk on the water of this moment,” he tells me
as my ark disappears beneath the sea.
I take a tentative step.
Then another.
Not sinking.
Now I’m striding
toward the distant mountains
of a sudden shoreline.
Just like he said I could,
holding the dove against my chest,
feeling all the colors of his love.
Some day the torn petal will bloom.
One day we all will.
Walking on the water of our moment.