Living Tree Poetry

I am a watchperson for the morning.

Up there,
in the wind’s domain
the clouds move as passing ships,
their grey giving way to silver blue,
to white,
at the touch of sun.

What seems ominous
from a distance
meets the light
and changes hue,
becomes transparent,
is all of a sudden overcome.

Revealed as
such things as they have always been,
although we,
with the light behind us,
perceive them first
as shadows growing.

Do not know how,
in the sun,
they will dissolve, garments shed,
the things that rendered them fearful,
invisible now
to the eye.

Their remnants shrinking,
their essence remaining,
to make me think,
watchperson for the morning,
that everything in God
that is not transformed,

that cannot stand up to the light,
bows out, bows out.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
17 April 2020

‘Let me hear the sound of your voice,
and I will leave it all behind.’
~ Steffany Gritzringer