Just a wishful meditation poem something...

Would that I could paint these words--to behold that tremored-Friday, to see the conquering gray of the storm, the gnarled, dull brown of the coarse cross, the flat silver of the nails, the rough dullness of the hammer, the pure glint of the tears, the stung red of olive-Jewish carpenter flesh, the pale mixture of sweat and blood from wounds of lash--dull colors oozed from our jealous judgment--and eyes with quiet grief so deep the oceans marvel...

Yet from those lash-torn traces and nail-forced wounds and spear-cleaved side pours forth pastels so bright the sun squints, fierce darts of light so intense the earth winces in fear of being vaporized...

Trumpet colors that out-shout the dullness and deadness of the brown dirt from whence all Adams spring... Flute hues that tease out hopes from hearts long baked and dried... A novel melody that wakes up tired ears to say "This is new".

Colors the world only saw in dreams, or in lovers' trances, or in babies' wise eyes or in 'thank you's from women at Samaritan wells, or in tears of Mary from Magdala...

Would that I could paint that scene--with oils or water colors or chalks...but I cannot...my hands have no skill...

I will try instead to dance that scene out, in this journey I call 'life'...

glenn miller, 7/21/96

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