THE FIRST WHO COMES LAST

These times have made me a burnt offering
They are a fume-fostering furnace heat
My incubation was spent sweltering
in a concrete cavern;  My birth was sweet
and the air embraced my unfolded wings
There, in the clouds above the crowds, I grew
Nourished by the music the choir sings
I ripened on the vine advanced by dew
Standing in the stream that runs with honey
I was baptized, made wise to the Old Ways,
Released by a new wind, fresh and sunny
Ordained the first poet of the last days
(or the last of the first days)
(I have been named for my task); thus I write:
Beware! The Lord comes as a thief to-night!

---jrw 3:08am
3-2-97