Transfiguration

In Tasaday existence, crouched beside a fire,

oblivious to the swirling world

that rages beyond my glow,

the winter me hums restful tunes behind closed doors.

But with the sun, my pulse races,

the speed of many motors racing toward far shores.

My body brown and bending meets the waves

that churn and cut away at summer banks…

not little by little but in great happy hunks.

I grasp and cling with both hands

as the soil washes through my fingers.

And when the sun is gone,

I am left holding the roots of summer.

By Molly Saty