Every Bush is Burning
Brandon Cook
In the back of the church, in a storage room just beneath the holy father’s feet
Sat a pile of icons, dusty but stacked up neat
Each meant, in some future life, long delayed
To be a holy moment of grace, like a spotlight on a stage
On which the mind can step, remembering that every hour is blessed
On the stone floor, instead, they became a metaphor
For something I had not time to put words toward,
My body lurching forward, my eyes only just catching sight of them
As we walked through the nave and into a blue sky morning
The world was already focused and on its way, with no time for saints
Everything too busy to be delayed
But the icons, as if with hands raised, kept saying
“Every bush is burning
Every plant awake
Leave us here in dust; let us go to rust
But if you see
I mean: truly look and see
That will be enough”