Heaven is the home of the Holy.
Take note, please, I did not say
the house of the Holy.
House brings to mind
2×4’s, doors, a pantry, a toilet,
solidity with a roof.

Holy needs no place.

I’ve a new imagining
of Eden, Eve and Adam
and billions of billions of galaxies
of billions of billions of billions of stars
as the camouflage of God,
as was the scaled snake in the fruit tree,
the burning bush,
the altar in the temple,
the paschal lamb,
the skin of Jesus.

For when that which was the woman,
formless freedom of will,
said “yes” to the not yet snake,
rather the inherent, but not inevitable
outcome of choice, Evil,
the first crunch of the bite of the apple
became the first iteration of
weight, form, content,
a heavy gravity of new dimensions,
including death and its eternal
nothingness
and the first pairs first embarrassment
over their newly noted nakedness
as they hid behind that first concealment
of that just appeared green leafy bush
which much later burned on the mountain top
but was not consumed, rather grew to the tree
which was hewn to become the cross
from which hung the body of the Holy
who only in the flesh could uncarnate us,
to free us, so we might metamorph into
the Home of the Holy
again.