Burning Bush

Like a drawbridge the once flat concrete sidewalk pieces raise up from the water searching Sycamore roots. They are passing under as she is passing over. The scene cannot be left unconsidered. I am has sent me to you.

The blue tarp like a river streams behind the rusty chain-link fence topped with spiraling razor wire. It’s tight fitting. No excess flapping. Switchblades are left open ready to gut bottom-feeding carps if the carpeting remnant is not used.

The river pours into the burning bush. Flames of fire whip off the blaze. It’s such a strange site. Sharp fragments of smashed liquor bottles collect in the buttress base with other litter like fresh air killers. Round here the funk appears like mottled trunks. The pink shoestrings tied around her waist are evenly measured loops. The aglets fluctuate midair. Produce trucks rumble the street like bass tones on a music sheet. Their frequency makes mush of the blacktop with heavy grooves.

It was here where the wage of the slave is thrown into the blaze because the gift out weighs the flat-line factory. The slave drivers of microprocessors obsess blue screens masking the image of God for slave labor. An enduring concern for the silent suffering of all sons and daughters is down. The sound of rescue is peace. The burning bush does not burn up. The voice leaps forth in the fringe. The way speaks to me. The all-consuming fire does not singe what is his.

What is his do not dismiss. Blues pour over me. He drew me through the drawbridge so we could be in his presence. After the first time you’ll ask for once more. Be in awe still. Safe passage across open arms. Stealers could not prevent access by their snapshots. The gift of the kingdom cannot be shaken. Re-thank each time, fullness. Remain on holy ground.