The Time Lapse of Pollen and Ash

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Monday, 21 April 2025

Written by Eve Moore

The Time Lapse of Pollen and Ash

I'm wearing the

soft, frayed cloak

of Judas today.

His presence as unexpected

as the peace he exudes.

Its warmth reaching those places,

as his threads intertwine mine,

hard places left out in the cold

frame of who I thought I was,

and was to become.

Places that have held my self

back from a peace which passeth

all understanding, though Judas

seems to understand.

Places harboring

condemnation of dyed-

in-the-wool storylines that

had their cursive wrapped round

my head so tightly I could not abide

any arc that would supersede their outcome—

which I assured myself would be grand, in the end,

would forge a kingdom, a new realm, where I,

so like he, I imagine, would bask

in the reflection of this

and its glory—

not quite.

Not then, not now.

Not as I have come

see outcomes through his

and my heart's eyes.

For I, like he, will be a part of what shall

arise as glorious, in spite of the dense shadows

of narrow perspective echoing the temple

chambers of collective psyche, of self-

aggrandized ends hidden in adipose

molt of millennia, the strata of untold

bones—of struggle, down-fall, exile,

betrayals of a love greater than I,

we, could grasp, my own

persecution of my lack

of understanding,

of acceptance

of this

purgatory

of abeyance.

And my role in it.

Such dark wandering

in search of a torch I had not

recognized as the ember

glowing within me.

Potter's Field, so operative in his time,

so co-operative in the story of redemption,

now guides me, some 2000 years later—

the price one pays for allowing oneself to

be excised from the life and purpose of

our birth: to wit, George Bailey of the

christ mass film, It's A Wonderful life.

[ : birth : death : resurrection : ]

He gets to see what would come

of a world without his unique

being and seeding: a land

where love and harmony

and wellbeing live and

breathe uninjured by

the hand of greed,

its serial neglect,

its incessant taking

no matter its plenty.

His grandiose ideas of

the purpose of his life—

charting worlds, erecting

castles in the sky, far from

his place of birth—was, instead,

to be exactly who he was,

exactly where and

as he was.

No, not a king, but

a pivot round which

the kingdom of his

small town flourished

in homes he designs

—at his own personal cost—

for all, rather than consign those of meager

earnings and "other" social standing

to be housed in the "slums"

of Potter's Field.

A name that's come

to describe, sadly,

"paupers" graves,

housing what

remains of

the indigent,

the friendless,

the outcast—drawing

from Judas's posthumous

"blood money" purchase of said

land, then a source of potter's clay,

upon which he would end his life

—at that time, in that role.

Much comes of our

living on purpose,

our singular purpose,

even if it requires

losing our way, even

if our choices yield failure,

difficulty, hardship, enmity.

Even unspeakable suffering.

Yes, I know, it goes against

the grain of what we deem

proper and palatable,

even possible.

And we foment only

more war by holding

this ground when

we can find new

ground to roam

—far from the

struggle and

strife, blame,

vengeance

to which

we've

grown

too well

adjusted.

Of which

Jiddu Krishnamurti,

sage, philosopher says:

"It is no measure of health

to be well adjusted to a

profoundly sick society."

Forgiving ourselves

for we know not

what we do

as a rule.

There are few,

if any,

exceptions.

The scope of our

lives is far grander

than our vision is able

to see in its certainties,

blind spots and false fronts,

its barred windows, halls of mirrors,

its neat narratives and concrete angles

—a life forged of uncertainty,

the fertile ground out of

which much comes.

Much has, will come,

for the promise made is

the promise of the red bud

bearing its blooms in spring—

regardless of what has hung

from its ancient and storied

limbs: reviled, rebuked,

damned for all time.

It is resurrection of all

that lives through the apparent

death, the bereft barrenness, the

frozen monochromes, the deep,

deep sleep of winter.

It is not reserved for saints

and masters, "saviors,"

but for all who draw

breath, even Judas.

No matter the storms.

This is the living, breathing

promise: life everlasting

made manifest in the

brilliant hues of

the rainbow

painting faces,

branches, fins, pelts,

fields raising tender

grasses, blossoming

trees and hearts beating

songs of love in concert

—reflecting, refracting

the many rays of

this one

light.

There is no greater

testament, to my mind,

heart and soul, of the un-

conditional love of christ

consciousness Jesus bore in

his human flesh than to uplift

his beloved friend and brother,

Judas: "Friend, do quickly what

you must"; that is, to assure his

betrayal and brutal death
(in the canonized telling)

in order to serve the

ever greater good

of humankind.

Which will serve, in turn,

in the grand unknowable, unfathomable

scheme of timelessness,

the greatest good

of all life living

mother earth.

And, I dare say, life far

beyond her radiant blue

greening span.

No matter what.

As Martin Luther King

made timeless the insight

of an 1852 Unitarian sermon:

the arc of the moral universe

is long, but it bends

toward justice."

So, too, Gaia's clock reads cycles,

the geomantic language of

spiraling as the milk

of her galaxy, like

those nearby,

read and

write

on the

heavens.

The weed that

breaks apart

concrete, turns

it into something else,

eventually: a sacred ruin,

a relic, a talisman, a tiny piece

of silvery sand that will become

a pearl in the healing belly

of an oyster.

At this time of Eostre,

of Earth Day,

let us become the

living changing we wish

to see in our world

ever forming, as

we see in the

trees, the

shores,

the smile

that sparks

another's smile.

Forgiving everything

that hurts, harms, heals—

most uncritically ourselves

for the incomprehensible part

we play in the greatest

story ever telling

its truth: life.

The source

of which

is love.

This is the peace,

the peace of an exile

that passes timelines

and storylines to meet

me, here—just as I am,

with understanding,

brotherhood, love.

Namaste, dear brother.
Rest Live in peace.

"Forgiveness is the fragrance

the violet sheds on the heel

that has crushed it."

—Mark Twain

∞|∞

© Photo: Eve Moore Eve Moore ©2025
Eve Moore: Once a professional writer of advertising, I saw the light & it has shown me words of a different nature. And so I take them down & offer them up. And all is well.

For more of Eve Moore's amazing and heart centered poetry and writings, click here!
http://www.crystalwind.ca/eve-moore

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.”
—Jimi Hendrix

This poem/prose was submitted exclusively to CrystalWind.ca by Eve Moore.

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The Time Lapse of Pollen and Ash

The Time Lapse of Pollen and Ash

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