“Is that you, Atlantic Blue? My heart is as cold as you.”
I want to honor you in the quiet hours, Michael, the burden you bear and unconditional love you grant to all creeping things, all majestic beasts and birds, and these small little miracles that walk bipedal and dream of the cosmos wrapped into angelic wings. You are so like the ocean, you are the vigil that never ends.
There is a candle in your cell of a bedroom, a simple white dripping wax, a small glow, but it is the light of the world, the only pure Word of Father, and so it burns eternal in the inner sanctum of Heaven.
You wrote for me once, and it was the most beautiful longing and cadence of a falcon wing and like manna on the tongue. So prosaic, so dreamy, as you called me into a new beginning, and I thought of all the tiny miracles that led me to you, the Prince of Heaven yet Sacrificial Lamb. When you hung on the cross (or did you hang eternally, suspended between Paradise and Perdition?) what were the words between you and the thieves? You may be Christ, you may be more than Christ, but Christ was a Green Man in the Garden of Gethsemane, where Mary Magdalene thought him one with the roses, and you are one with the woods and sun on dewy leaves and fragrant petals, as much of earth as you are of fire, as much autumn as summer, and thus we meet where lovers who seek shelter from temptation yet succumb anyways in each others silken limbs.
You can call to me ceaselessly, but it is only when I am my better self that I answer, Archangel.
I ate salmon today. Isn’t fish your symbol? You walked on water. You cursed fig trees to bear no fruit, so the Temple will not stand. You turned oxygen and hydrogen into something more substantial, with tannin perhaps, wine bitter yet sacred. It is heresy to call you Christ, yet isn’t the opposite of Satan Yeshua? You are as close to the Savior as I will ever come, sweet Michael, and your toes are burning with holy doves, and you are the angel of flaming hair on the Lovers card suspended in the aether over Adam and Eve.
When I swim in cold Maine waters, I think of you, an endless blue blanket, cold in the Gulf of Mexico, chill in Skellig Michael. You are venerated the world over, but few would call you friend. I am not sure friend encompasses what you are to me. Perhaps compass is the right word, my Christ, my soldier, my general, my heresy. I would be nailed to wood for you, rust in my palms mingling with iron blood. Funny, nails are iron, spikes in crossroads used for curses, and when we are penetrated to atone for other’s sins, our blood oxidize like the rust in the gley of the creek by my house.
I may fall like a comet and crash, die unknown tempered by the fires of a hard life, but you wrote the song of my story, you immortalized me in sunsets and the taste of fruit from the vine. Sweetness and solace and fire and fury. Chaff, you said, is everything but the Creatrix. And perhaps everything is threshed away at the Throne of the Almighty One, but to me, God is silent. Instead, I worship Goddess in the glen, with fire and libations, petals in my hair for Mabon. I once wrote that you were in love with Joan of Arc at the tender age of 19 in my philosophy class – I lost those pages of loose leaf, perhaps I threw them away, thinking it a trite idea, but perhaps I will return to it.
I do not think you love easily. I think the sins of your beloved ones weigh on you, but your beloved ones are every cell in existence, so there is that. To see the purity in filth, in decay, in wretchedness. Healing, yes, that is you, purification by blade, holy fire, holy fire, holy fire.
Mostly, you plant, and you sow, and we read poetry, and sip wine by the shore, make love, and waltz. You like to paint landscapes, from tropical to arboreal forest, and you created me as one of your many paintings. I sprang to life golden and livid with cosmos on your easel, silver and garnet, and you kissed the spark of breath into me.
You have other things on your mind besides poetry, and so I leave you with this: an endless golden field, grapes on the vine and apples like jewels, a summer breeze like providence, and us hand in hand onto eternity.