In the Upper Room 

There is this fluttering, like palpitations, 

or quickening, or perhaps butterflies 

except not in the stomach, not low down. 

This is up, aloft … a-hover now, 

like a dove above a river

except that we are not outside.

This which we have waded into 

has a strong current which is also electric.

There is a fragrance on the air, 

and a wave-of-roaring sometimes, 

a light tongue-lap other times, 

or a flame a-flicker, a-dance overhead. 

This is a presence that encompasses, 

circumscribes like arcs around a radial dot, 

except not one of us is just a dot. 

Here, we are radiant motes 

in the light from a scintillating source, 

a focus for espousing photons – a touch

sometimes airy, featherlike, particulate

sometimes bright, irradiating, burning, 

other times pulsing and as comforting

as a mother-hen, warm wings brooding.

This presence protects but is not safe.

This is like a breeze in the face sometimes,

other times, forceful – a gushing wind 

to knock you backwards into a catcher’s arms

or to knee-buckle as if by your own free will, 

whatever your will is anymore. 

And sometimes there will be laughter

and sometimes groaning and sobbing, 

or those silent tears that heal. 

For This is That which was without, 

and is now He who is within –

who is and was and will be … 

up there, in here, now this side, now that

and, yes, even down 

where we’d rather cover over. 

He who blots out all trouble

calms all fear and flesh-nonsense, 

retunes arrhythmia at the core, 

clutches at lungs and announces

This is Pneuma

before breathing fresh life inside, 

blowing the top of your head right off 

for an instant neuroplasty 

to rewire pathways, remap networks, 

reignite dulled synapses, 

wipe corrupt memories, install new software, 

rewrite histories, recast futures.

                                                                           Sharon Larkin, May 2020