Poem 1/9/18

I saw an artist on a hill:
Alone she stood.
The wind whipped through her creature hair
And sang through her heart like blood.

She looked at the hills and the mountain tops far
And the valleys that lay down in crags
And she realized the landscape reflected her soul
And that deep in her soul, she was sad.

This artist, she sang to the Artist who birthed
Her body and soul and her mind
And her heart that ran after him
Hungry for every fragment of Him she could find.

Up there, her coming but tarrying One
Seemed to sing her a faint distant tune
With a voice of confident, thunderous weight
And a whisper that said, "I come soon.

Don't worry, don't waste it, this time you have there
In the valleys and darkness and shadow
For my bride's being gathered, there are hearts yet to win,
Coming radiance none of you know.

On me, look to me, girl. Just fix your eyes here.
Let the shadows and veil melt away.
I call you, Beloved, my love makes you still,
And it readies your heart for today.

Tomorrow is coming--I do not delay,
Though the now seems so weighty and vast--
When, at long last, past hoping
You look in my eyes

And the artist sees Beauty at last."