Pilgrims of light, we journey to a better country
whose cities beat gold into bowls and earrings for our inheritance.
Whose hills drip with copper and silver,
the precious metals we ourselves become through fire.

He alone knows the way you take and, I’m telling you,
you’re coming forth as gold;
this furnace is making a molten substance of you,
pure as beeswax and as malleable to the touch.

The divine romance has always been thus:
follow the whisper of presence into a vast, waterless place,
quite deserted, and wait for transfiguration.

Not of the landscape, but of you, beloved.
Radiant as the one who creates you
in the true image, daily.


March 21, 2014 — Alexandra Hunter
Tags: poetry