Threshold

By Katrina Mahoney

Standing there at the summit,

he must have wavered at

the Abundance:

his eyes being pinholes of a finer light,

eclipsing all the pains

and soon to be ripened sorrows.

He stood, discerning.

And those eyes were eyes of wisdom:

More than fleeting glimpses,

the visions were whole majestic paintings.

Landscapes,

that were not only meant to be,

but had to be.

Brother Joseph sought the Eastward winds,

his heightened sense of time recalling

Galilee;

and the days before,

and the days since.

Now the songs of old would trumpet,

resound through all the Earth, and

be the last of all great melodies.

But the last is the fruit of the vine,

for he stood on the Threshold

of the Fulness of Times.