What is transfiguration
if not the seed streaked 
with dirt and rain 
rising from disheveled earth?

Petals, after a summer rain, 
glisten in the morning light:
Thorny vine of summer unfurls, 
and heavy fruit taxes the branches.

But before the blossom,
sweat and ashes—and oh
the weight of doubt.

Transform this wait,
and pining—cross I bare—
that I too might participate 
in your transfiguration.