by Cynthia Erlandson
Shining wine-red trees tremble
in a rushing Whitsuntide wind
that rattles the breathing, bornagain world
with vibrant revival,
quickening ten thousand quaking tongues
to sing a fiery sanctus.
Flickering sun-colored flames crackle,
shake, break the blue,
rejoicing in orange exuberance.
Golden glorias explode in October ecstasy,
quickening the pentecostal pulse.
Burning bushes burst into sursum corda for
the season’s second coming.
The zealous horizon resounds:
sing staccato doxologies,
speaking of him who spake by the prophets,
shouting their credo:
I believe in the Holy Ghost.
Related reading: These Holy Mysteries