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  • Writer's pictureHannah Hinsch


I was with Him on the mountain, 

in the fruited grotto 

among quiet, rainless vines. 


And—how do I tell it!--He was clothed in light, 

light alone, 

undiluted wine when I had tasted water. 


Even now, dry-mouthed swallowing,  

words ripple back through me,  

inarticulate and changing  

as the witness of the fathers. 


And even in my turning there was  

a scorched, beloved face— 

eyes open  

to the glory, 

to the taste.  

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