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TRANSIFIGURED IN MY BACKYARD
By Quentin Smith
The silver-sweet sounds of centuries of longing
Bring orison distances to my swimming head.
Is it the Invisible Presence or a light melting above the clouds
That seems to answer, to turn towards
The Open I am almost falling out of?
The ground glides beneath me like a sky,
And I am slowing transfigured by the azure,
Beyond my inward seeping eyes,
Eyes no longer hollowed by waiting.
I somehow become the red ceiling of the unknown
Patterned over a golden dome
Sheltering the Strangeness of these traveling clouds.
Written 1973 and 2002 |