The Storm rattling on the arrived horizon,
that one we’ve been talking about.
The same revelation St. John saw sweeping in
from his cave
off the green-blue Aegean
and Nostradamus murmured to his scribe;
Some call it the Kali Yuga, the eagle and the condor, the return of Quetzlquatl;
This storm known, dreaded, anticipated
through all history,
that is perhaps history itself,
Like the thunderclaps you hope miss your tent
exposed on the alpine crag
we are in the place of getting wet,
the the white knuckle moment,
not knowing where the lightning strikes next.
Collapse, that looming truth,
Erosion, endings, and nothing to be done.
An insatiable rumbling
that will have its way -
And we, the unwitting people of prophecy,
Summoned to unteachable courage.
Pretending has been a good friend
on the road to apocalypse.
A worthy promise to the future,
a carefully constructed hope.
But the storm, being here now
will make an enemy of our self-deception,
will shred our hope,
and drown our delusion
in its torrents.
In these days of storms too big for plans,
as the forests burn and late summer smoke
fills the busy streets of our fragile order,
how do we meet the last chapter
and step into our own revelation,
while making a home for our tears?
The Great Story is a circle,
and Revelation implies Genesis.
Step outside this clinging dying normalcy
and dance a jagged lightning jig.
Be the fire burning down this poison forest,
and let the seeds of renewal spill from your mouth.
Set your pen to page and turn your ear to earth.
A new story wants to give you an apple.