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.