When My Days are Spent
When my days are spent
may you mourn me thus:
he was the mountain of Tabor,
gently rising,
seeking light and dawn.
The twigs and boughs make tabernacles
that wait for a conversation,
discourse of light and fire,
two witnesses to merciful truth.
See Tabor in her rising;
she remembers glory,
two far-seers meeting their hope;
she trembles, lamb-like, for return.
Even so was he:
lamb trembling for the light,
hesychast of mind,
meditation in human form,
hoping for transfiguration.
