The mountain 
was known for its faces: 
old as time and containing 
the capricious moods of a newborn, 
mewling and frost-bitten on day, 
green and friendly another. 
squalling cloud and light 
enough to keep its suitors guessing 
and hoping, climbing into eternity 
just for the view. 

                                    Nothing 
so elementally expressive 
could contain the steadfast, 
implacable, 
untimely mercy that met them 
beyond the tree line, 
muttering amongst the crows, 
“Listen …”

This poem first appeared at the Episcopal Journal. This Sunday celebrates the Feast of the Transfiguration, that mysterious moment upon the mountaintop …