“ . . . Yet Not Consumed”

This is the gospel truth.
I knew her then, ten
years or so ago,
when she claimed she saw
a common thorny bush
and caught an inkling of the holy.
Bemused friends shrugged,
but she swore by what she saw
and slipped off her sensible
size six shoes
to walk barefoot on the ground.
Neither the suck of mud,
nor the grip of ice on sole,
nor the sharp shards of rocks,
nor the sun-fried sidewalk
could convince her otherwise.
A fleeting decade later
I see her most mornings
as she wanders the trail
beside the shallow creek.
A dun-colored hoodie
drapes her close-cropped hair.
Ankle pants, the shade
of dried autumn cattails,
end at her naked feet,
the flesh browned and thickened,
the toes well-rounded.
When she moves, she moves
as if she’s standing still.
Her eyes, the color of ash,
flash at the first sight
of crocuses and aspen shoots.
Although I knew her then
and I know her now,
I run past her on the right
wearing my neon Nikes
without a sideways glance
or a hand lifted in hello.
In my empty belly
grows a growling yearning
to see a scrubby bush,
and to see, no, to know:
that scrubby bush is burning.