The sun has chosen the magnolia outside my kitchen window as its pulpit–

a burning blaze that turns every leaf into a flashing silver coin,

hands of fire, 

passing flames to the next sinner,

as the whole tree trembles in a welcome wind.

This congregation shall overcome.

The light travels,

streaking along waxed surfaces like an 

Olympic jumper–

tip to tip,

temple to temple.

Is this how news spreads?

Is this how belief bleeds?

Is this how we burn the world?

I narrow my eyes–

Violent vibrance.

For a moment it seems the tree 

might burst into flames

as if the act of praise is combustible,

as if hope, when concentrated,

is indistinguishable from disaster.

Yet beneath the fiery canopy rests another country in entirety–

Republic of Shadow–

cool crevices with dividing branches,

private highways without pavement,

maps drawn by systems and needs.

The air is damp here.

I wonder–

Does the lower architecture long for

                  the blaze above?

Or does it trust the warmth will travel

                  through invisible corridors?

Coded messages in pulsating sap. 

Living systems never abandoned. 

Reckless traveler – Light –

                  moving

                  reaching all

                  as if to say

                                    there is enough

                                                      to warm you

                                                      to blind you

                                                      to keep the structure whole.