silence

the old monk

pushes open the door

drives his scooter

into the sanctuary

the whirring of the motor

the only sound

in this silence please place

he disappears

behind the pews

soon returns

through another door

we watch

wondering

who he is

how long he has

lived in this abbey

what his story is

we glance at

each other

as the late afternoon sun

shines through the

geometric windows

mysterious

mystical

this contemplative

gethsemani

where merton

once put his

poetic pen

into service

calling us

to deeper lives

work sacred reading prayer

the walls speak

god alone

pax

we are drawn

to cathedrals

temples

basilicas

churches

missions

abbeys

sanctuaries of all kinds

magnets of the soul

pull us off our

direct paths

to out of the way

retreats hideaways

chosen by the few

for lives religious

the sun sets

behind

st. joseph

holding little jesus

on his shoulder

then paints

the sky pink red

as hushed we walk

hand in hand

back to the car

and the gift shop

walnut fudge

miles to go

miles to go

christie smith stephens

on stopping by gethsemani

on a winter’s afternoon

january 3, 2011