September 15, 2017 · poetry

St. Bernadette

A woman, dancing, lifting up her children.
Wouldn’t you want to look?

In the grotto at Lourdes

Our Lady threw
pearls of Her glory across the sky

and a girl, riveted, listened.

Time started.

Rocks slid down the mountainside;
a frozen river warmed her feet,
and she heard her friends' laughter.

Take your daughters
and shake them down for sense.
That’s how my mother did things.
Our Lady, and pearls, and glory.

Curved-neck heron, nature-prince,

we fly
alone, waiting,
wafting weightless in the breeze.
The beauty of Thy peace

is like a high-flown cedar,
a chest, athwart, astern.
Till we always turn,
turn, turn, return.
We all always return.

As far as we see
no one's been before us
or above us, or behind us
no one's come among us,
inside us, or below us

as we hover
feathered in the furrowed clouds

and that No One is God.

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