The Hesychast

Tears of Joy Shed For The Dawn's Nativity

'all creation is a gigantic Burning Bush'
-
Kallistos Ware

Sultry heat has
the fields still as icy lakes,
midnight dew, christen the soils.

Black thorn's brambles,
turning in, curling in, red buds
appear like light upon each dark limb.

Bramble bush turning inward to
its inner fire, my inner lyre
is thrummed by primordial breeze.

This shadow of mine lies in
dreams endless, buried in the
still soil to come back, resurrected.

Air soft as moonlight,
flutters like alien moths,
my eyes see inside my heart.

I kneel not to see the burning shape,
but to feel the blades of grass
grow still, in these fields I sowed.

These seeds that grow old,
will one day sprout to bloom
as golden acres across my inner ghost.

It is a long journey through each
silent field, but the beads of rosary
cascade down the rope, I stand in Hesychia.

Now the sun rises, the prayer's been said,
lids lift as stones vanishing from tombs,
awakening for the rising dawn, a second birth.

A few feet from me: ash.

Fall like coal, the dew of fire.

Tears of joy shed for the dawn's nativity.

The ash is in thin, murky puddles round a bush.

A bush that burned, each licking flame
permeating,
but never consuming.