by Cynthia Pitman

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face; now I know in part; but then shall I know even as I also am known. 1 Corinthians 13:12

I climbed a rough trail
then entered the peace
of the oak-shaded clearing.
There I lay myself down
on the sacred ground
and listened to the silent sounds
of memory:
the crunch of the grass
by the grey-brown doe
and her fawn,
the sweet cries of a lovers’ union,
the laughter of children
who gathered around the picnic blanket
with a basket overflowing
with delight.
These memories,
embraced by the moss-draped trees,
restored my sight.
I no longer see through
the glass darkly.
Rather I see the Holy Light —
a marvelous sight.

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Cynthia Pitman, author of The White Room, Blood Orange, and Breathe (Aldrich Press, Kelsay Books), has been published in Amethyst Review, Ekphrastic Review, Third Wednesday (One Sentence Poem finalist), Saw Palm (Pushcart Prize nominee) and others, and in Vita Brevis anthologies Pain and Renewal, Brought to Sight & Swept Away, What is All This Sweet Work? and Nothing Divine Dies.