The mountain
was known for its faces:
old as time and containing
the capricious moods of a newborn,
mewling and frost-bitten on day,
green and friendly another.
squalling cloud and light
enough to keep its suitors guessing
and hoping, climbing into eternity
just for the view.
Nothing
so elementally expressive
could contain the steadfast,
implacable,
untimely mercy that met them
beyond the tree line,
muttering amongst the crows,
“Listen …”
This Sunday we celebrate the Feast of the Transfiguration, that mysterious moment upon the mountaintop …
