The first flurries are falling,falling slowly. In the dark of morning,I reached into my shadow closetand plucked my wool sweater,the old one, with snowflakes. It
Sitting at the end of a lakeside dock,with solid cedar boards below my chairbut ever-flowing water underneath,I saw a cumulus cloud toweringlike a holy city
Those who look to you are radiant Sometimes I make the mistake of beingtoo corporeal-minded forgetting we’re predominantly made of lightmissing how like the moon’s
“On December 10, 1968, Thomas Merton, a Trappist monk and perhaps the most popular AmericanCatholic writer in history, stepped out of a bathroom shower during
Too lotsthese lights. Batscan’t do their gnat trickbit. Too coursethese foods, too bruisedthe fruit, blacked the viewToo fierce these fuedsToo true: all sinned,too sinned, all,
That time keeps onslippingslippingslippinginto the futureisn’t true,strictly speaking. It slips past, if anything,like a train.It also slipsinto the past as ifthe past were a bogcapable
And what did they write with their iron styli,what complaints carve into his scholar skinby order of the Emperor; by assignmentand timely, stab with their
When, at 1:00 am, our neighbor risesfor his nightly ritual, plinks a bit, then— perhaps inspired—passionately pounds out“When I Survey the Wondrous Cross,” my husband
“…the lion shall eat straw like the ox.” — Isaiah 11:7“Is this what it’s like…a little blood here, a chomp there … must everything whole
