Through Any Fissure
Sanctuary in the open, silent ripple of sails in that flower the morning glory: tissue-thin wind-reversed white parasol, flesh of which ebbs with air beside the blue dumpster hard against the concrete base below the wooden telephone pole. Only the wind extending its language, the bloom’s cloud-thrums oscillate in a cranny made by pole and dumpster like a fretting bird in nest, or some stray balloon, eddy-caught in a corner in an alley, or one pale shaking child weeping pleading on knees to a ghetto wall to leave.
—Paul Stilwell
Paul Stilwell is a member of the Epiphany Sacred Arts Guild (epiphanysacredarts.org). He is currently learning iconography under
the guild’s president, Frank C. Turner.
