FIRE BLOSSOMS

The sorrowful melody of the brass coils up my spine like the vines that coil up the gutter spouts, before spreading their brilliant orange fire blossoms of redemption, across the terra cotta tiled rooftops, with a hallelujah deeply rooted in the darkness of the soil beneath our feet, of which carried us here, to gather for many reasons, from many lands. Some came bushwhacking through the thick vines that flourish in the chaos of life, others have been drawn down long and windy, yet well-trodden paths, heads bowed, and hands clasped firmly yet softly. As the thunderous beat of the drum calls on all hearts, the heavenly cry of the horn weeps for the soul, and begs upon its knees, asking one to seek, to feel deeply, and to not look up until one is prepared to see what one truly seeks. The sorrowful melody wraps its vines around my heart and in the most profound sense of sadness and loss, blooms joy and eternal oneness in brilliant orange fire blossoms, and as the song carries on late into the night, I see glowing hearts guiding the feet of those coming down the mountain to pray.