At first you see nothing,
eyes adapting to the low light,
sky light from above,
and then, out of the dark
plum, deep russet
and oxblood so nearly black
it's more than black,
emerges a slow radiance,
a generosity
of auras becoming thresholds,
maps and open windows
opening the night,
art nailed
to fourteen panels,
each station one less
terminal, each terminal
our next beginning.
Staring at God, these paintings,
if that's what they really are,
become incarnate, beyond our insight,
faith, definition and all
the powers of illumination,
and we see the truth. This dark
and ascending sacrifice, this light, this mortal
beauty will save the world.
Rothko's Chapel by Richard Cole | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
