The final blow

In the summer night when the wind blows
and I close my eyes to picture this
moving invisible something
that cools me and the darkness,

I see a face.

Whose face is this
that I’ve closed my eyes to see?
It doesn’t move.
No blinking.
No smile.
No frown.
All muscle twitches stopped.

Gazing on the face, it’s then that I know where I am called to live
and how long.
The wind speaks it to me...
this cool wind that blows from across the desert.

I know this face. It is vain for me

to ask Whose it is.
It is the face I will stare at for eternity
only if
I start staring now
and continue until then--
the face that I must not open my eyes to lose.

Eyes closed. The world shuttered out.
There,
almost still,
with air touching me
then moving past,
I see.

Nearly still now.

It is hard to love just a face.
It is hard to like a face that no longer smiles,

or even frowns—

a face that doesn’t move

at least for now....

The leaves on the tree stop. Silence.

For now, but for a moment...

...and in this moment
with the leaves still
and the tree still
and the wind still
and nothing now to cool my thoughts
or refresh my patience
or blow away the thoughts of my day
and the dust of my imperfections...
just then...

I see a tear
there,
on the face,
not yet dried.

I reach out toward it,
but cannot.
The closer my finger gets

to the wetness on this face,
the more my hand must pull back.

I want to touch it before it dries,

but more tears flow--
tears which are a gift,
and mine.

Powerless, unable to reach further,

I can only touch these instead,
and my own face
which wants to hide
as it distorts itself in cries and grief.

Anguish.

This last remaining tear--
undried
come out before the eyelids dropped--
was cried for me
long, long before mine for His.

Then in the sad dark night
when the sobbing for a face

that no longer moves
becomes my only pieta,
I feel the wind again.

I know now, this wind.
I feel it,
on my face,
from across this desert
come to dry my tears.

Believing the story
I know this breeze as I know my own breath,
and peace comes.

The breeze,
the air,
that came out

of the mouth of this Man

before all muscles ceased,
as He pushed up

and gasped

and grabbed

and pulled

and tore

and groaned

then heaved

and breathed His last,
complete and final breath
from deepest depths
and past relaxing, dying lips

that kiss the air so-long.

Oh, the Face with the tear
upon which I now stare!
(eyes closed)

Oh, the One who gave to the Father

this kiss,

and yes to us--
of His forever and final Spirit
Holy
Unending
Life-giving

and cooling in the night.