The surface is thin yet not 

and holds the capacity to turn

over 

again and again. 

Oh, to penetrate her center. 

That is were the secret resides. 

Within. 

It’s out. 

Her flame is molting hot. 

With just one tip, 

the covering slips. 

From her composition’s sustenance, 

she gives rise to all. 

New.

Old.

All are gold. 

Life is born out of debris. 

It’s the turn.

The present.

Be aware of the treasure 

or not. 

She isn’t afraid. 

Let all learn. 

The churn 

is ever on. 

There’s not a stop, on this line. 

I stop. 

You can, too. 

Just look at the lines 

and you will see that she has been here 

millions of times. 

Pollute the air. 

Write a song. 

Dance. 

Sing out loud 

or not at all. 

She will not fall. 

Just turn over. 

Dust returns to dust. 

Rust. 

Rust. 

When she speaks, 

all listen

by ear or not.

Feel. 

It’s real.

Here. 

Hear. 

Have no fear.

Her voice is love. 

That’s all. 

Was it Anthony 

of 

Alexandria 

or 

Paul 

that saw 

a vision of Mary stepping onto the soil 

of what is called 

the peninsula to the Mother of God?

It may have been neither. 

It doesn’t really matter. 

It is a garden unlike none that is in Her honor. 

There, I have walked along the slopes 

in sandals where even a mountain goat 

would have had to be careful. 

She is in the garden. 

The Son is, too.

He is in me.

I see Him in you. 

The Protaton holds a view of the Two

arm 

in 

arm. 

Theotokos and God.

I kissed them and the frame that holds 

the glowing 

images 

of grace, 

favor and 

mercy 

witnessing Divine Liturgies 

day and night by candlelight. 

But today, Easter Monday, They were carried through the streets of Karyes by the monks in the sun for all to see. 

When I look at them, 

I glow. 

He grew to become 

a man and hung 

on a cross. 

His blood run 

from the wounds.

The thief, 
 
at his side, 

was welcomed to Heaven. 

The crowd cheered.

Did they realize 

that 

that breath 

became theirs?

Forgiven. 

He is Risen. 

In the garden today, amethyst, blue and purple colored pods emerged from under their leafy, covered heads. 

It was like witnessing an Orthodox monk bowed before an icon lifting his face of beaming grace and kissing the Saint. 

Lord Have Mercy, he says, as he prays day and night for all mankind. 

The chipmunks and I have watched the procession before. 

First, the green tips reveals themselves by piercing through the mulch protectively hugging the fragile jewels. They have risen from the earth before and know the bite of ice, the killing chill, that could come. 

As the days lengthen and the sphere shifts on it’s axis, the leaves will unfold for all to behold. 

I, myself, at this very moment, just knelt on my knees and kissed true royalty. 

All things are divinity. 

Day after day passes and the heads will lift higher and higher to welcome the light. 

I lifted my hands in praise to the clouds and the rain, 

and I bowed my head to thank the earth 

for all the nutrients given for this birth. 

The pods will open one by one to face our loving sun. 

We, together, the flowers and I, thanked the life sustaining ball of fire;

in a few days, the entire performance will return to the soil. 

Don’t look to see. Not even a leaf will remain. 

There’s no cause for alarm. 

They are not gone or harmed. 

They have been here all along and are only changing robes for the next manifestation that happens naturally and has for all eternity.