Breeze of Mystery

Pure poetry, of course we need pure poetry. To capture the Mystery prose cannot suffice. We understand too little,  comprehend too little  to make a pretense of describing or explaining in prose. Let words and music twist and contort in irrational patterns  in the struggle to touch a heart, to assure a soul. Let rhythms and syncopation,  rhyme and discord,  strain to convey a little of the majesty and wonder. The Mystery teases, dancing on the periphery of our vision,  each revealing glimpse accompanied by the admonition to whisper nothing of it. The Mystery will not submit to anything as clumsy as analysis  or anything as crude as human logic. The Mystery is a breeze brushing the skin,  undoubtedly there,  uncompromisingly invisible. We create our religions,  we concoct our dogmas,  to explain the sensations that ripple across the surface of our soul,  but the breeze of Spirit will not be captured nor tamed  to suit our human fancies. Sometimes gentle, usually unnoticed,  on occasion fierce and undeniable,  the wind of the Mystery brushes the skin of our soul,  warming, cooling, remaining steadfastly invisible,  bringing the weather of Creation that shapes our destiny.