Transfigured

Sitting on the weathered bench 

In the far northwest corner of my yard, 

Stepping up to the edge of the cliff 

Every few minutes 

To peer around the scotch broom stalks 

At the distant mountains, 

Hoping for another perfect shot of a sunset 

Before the sun goes into its winter habitat 

(Too far south for its settings 

 To be seen from my home) 

I happened to observe 

This cluster of white berries 

In the bush across from me, 

Glowing quietly pearlescent 

 In the last light of evening.

 Marilynne Robinson was right: 

“Wherever you turn your eyes, 

The world can shine like transfiguration.”