She told me that she wanted to be holyBut everything she saidSounded like she wanted to be happy.And I wanted to cryAnd shout out the difference.But I couldn’t find the syllablesAnd put them in the true order. —Jessica Hooten . . . . Continue Reading »
The young man in his cell Receives his guestWho all his heart should tell And leave there blest.In quiet companyWe shall a marvel seeAs every thought shall be By that heart known. To Rome the pilgrims came Poor as God chose . . . . Continue Reading »
Columns rooted like treeswreathe the square beneatha turquoise-splattered sky.The fountains, given the weather,adorn their hats with a feather. —Marc Alan Di . . . . Continue Reading »
The forest still is rich, if not as green,As flecks of gold and umber decorateThe canopy, and caterpillars crawlUp grasses tipped with ochre. ByzantineBrown-banded honeybees investigateThe beds of Black-eyed Susans. Pumpkins lollBeneath their broad-leaved vines. I see the Fall Arriving, and I feel . . . . Continue Reading »
Enough, I am to crumble to the floor;But all around me are perceptive eyes.I feel like going to my Father’s doorWhere His house with its many mansions lies. There shall I praise Him with tongues manifoldBorrowed from sounds and scents, from clouds and light,From leaves of poplar combing streams of . . . . Continue Reading »
A translation of Mario Dell’Arco’s“Luna calante” Pendant around the neck of night:ringed by Taurus, Capricorn,Ursa Major on the risebefore so many fiery eyeslittle by little, whittles to a horn. —Marc Alan Di . . . . Continue Reading »
He forgave firstnot forgivinghimself before as he then forgavethe dust trailing his stepsfaithful as his shadow, as one who has gottenaway with somethingforgives a fallen nestling, a lost yearling,another selfwho never turned back from a landof lean cattleand empty of bees. —Andres . . . . Continue Reading »
Without warning, they appear, eachcluster separate from the next, goldbeads strung on strands of grass,glowing on the darkest days beneaththe fringe of summer trees, though whoknows how, or where they came from?Yet faith, not knowledge, is the sourceof hope that each bright blossom bringsalong with . . . . Continue Reading »
Tiny packets of life, these seeds. They seeminvisible in our busy days, and, tossedby shoes, or cracked by birds, or cast by breezeamong the weeds and stones, they might be lost;might be scorched, or washed away—or, worse,bloom in all their grace, and be ignored—but some of them take . . . . Continue Reading »
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