The Quickening

Oh, then, on that spontaneous, light-filled day, the world 
will begin singing again after our dim, silent millennial waiting— 
—you and me and every one of us. After the dark days 
the sun will be no longer reluctant in his shining (we’ll 
lift our faces to him, believing him to join with us, jubilant, 
peering from behind the heaving clouds). Then will our old limbs run 
and climb again with new vigor, and even the ancient barns, 
settling deeper in their fields, will sway and creak their praise in 
unison with the thunder, and the storms of wind and hail, while 
the old horse nickers in his stall, shaking his white mane at us, 
we standing by the barn door to greet him, full of joy. We’ll even 
see fish leaping and eagles soaring, ascending the sun-glanced air.

At the autumn in-gathering, the ground will boil with fallen apples, 
their fermentation making the feeding cattle tipsy. And in the frost- 
whiskered creeks, swimming the in-creeping tide, wood ducks will 
once again nudge each other along, making beatific bird music. And 
then—Spring! When it is all, everything, thawing, leaping, calling us 
back in time, in tune, as we, with the whole passionate earth chorale, 
will practice our scales for the ultimate performance. We’ll be, every 
one of us, overflowing with a brilliant, unstoppable, alleluia joy, 
singing songs that we’ll need not rehearse, since by then we’ll know 
all the tunes and words by heart, with love brimming over our souls’ 
rims, like wine. And together, leaping, rampant with a vertical energy, 
and freshened voices and a brand-new score, and well-tuned, 
enthusiastic instruments, and our almighty Lord leading us, we’ll sing, 
and keep on raising heaven’s roof without ever needing to stop.