Believers

When it’s cold outside,
pondering pilgrim poets
huddle by the hearth.

The moving mystics,
the wondering wanderers,
spend nights in the heart.

 …

The devout nuns pray
the rosary to Mary.
Bead by bead by bead.

Bald monks meditate,
sit in silence and prostrate.
Day by day by day. 

The nuns are praying,
the monks are meditating.
And birds are singing!
…

Writes and sings love songs,
after doing the dishes. 
Longing, lust, loss. Loud!

Then kneels in prayer 
at the end of every day. 
Says 'I'm sorry,’ ‘thanks.’

… 

She bakes, draws, dances,
plays piano, writes stories.
And wonders, what next?

He sits, walks, prays, talks,
reads poems and writes prayers. 
Hoping we’ll be well.

…

In awe of actors
who play life with open hands,
we clap in applause.

Inspired by poets
who face all with open eyes,
we’re prompted to see. 

Amazed by parents 
who meet pain with open hearts,
we pray for the kids.

… 

As usual, ritual,
before dawn they open doors,
shades, every window.

Present and punctual,
they come to the still altar.
With faithful patience.

Here and now again,
waiting for the voice to speak.
They listen with hope.

…

When they’re listening,
they’re giving and they’re learning.
Mutual gifting.

When they are writing,
they hear voices from beyond.
They’re interpreters.

…

First, they closed their eyes,
and sat in profound silence.
Got inspiration.

Then, opened their eyes,
and joined the city bustle.
Gave inspiration.