Transfiguration

If you went on to where the soul abides
In tree or bloom; river or fawn; on wings
Of hawk; even bluebird’s light song; ocean’s
Always mysterious rhythm — Yourself
Would be metamorphosed into a form
In which we couldn’t love. Lovely are the
Wild things, for they bear That Handiwork
We share but not That Image of The Word.
Embodied words we are. Our home is not
Dust, nor eagle; mountain laurel; neither
Jasmine leaf reposed by “the waters edge
Forever lost within our inward gaze.”
Transfiguration lights our leave of Time.
Then we’ll see Ourselves all human: body
And soul full alive forever in new
Earth and heaven where rules Resplendent Love.

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