Fire
The purling sound
Of soft wind in the trees
The wonder of the Pneuma
That hints of heat in the breeze,
The source of the burning bush
And the floating dove
The true trust ever present
In the greatest of pain...
And even so in greater love.
All that blows so quietly by
Is a holy-fire, living and alive,
A consuming fire
With passion pushed ever higher;
It burns and it turns
All around and all new
Scants of mystery are found
In all that is transient and true;
It transforms and transcends
It burns and it bends...
And when it is finished,
Nothing old shall be left
Of what once was you.
' Poets are used to discovering, years after a poem is written, what it's really about. ' - Kathleen Norris.
poem by Smoky Hoss
Added by Poetry Lover
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