MONK
Rodney J. Hugen
If I lived the monastic life
left wife, children, home,
money, possessions, power,
and all the things I long for,
but do not own, and can not have,
for a simple cell near a stone walled church
would I find you there?
Are you hidden in the corner of a rumpled pallet,
the roughened hem of a weathered robe,
on a touch stained crucifix above a chapel door?
Are you in the blackened iron skillet
of slow simmered vegetables
stewing on a wood burning stove?
Would I find you if I scattered corn to hens
and gathered up their brown shelled eggs?
If I fed timothy grass to whitefaced cows,
and offered bottles to bleating lambs?
If I cleaned stables until my hands calloused,
or daily raked the garden free of stones,
would I find you lurking near the rakes?
If I beat myself with whips, prayed on bloodied knees,
read your Holy Writ till first light dawns,
then would I see you in the haze of early morning fog?
If I prayed these prayers wept these tears,
gave gifts to help the gray-haired toothless ones,
offered up a smile and time of day to those abandoned,
would I find you flitting in the cracks of life?
Do you hide from me because I will not give you all?
Are you so demanding that I cannot retain
even the semblance of my shape?
Whisper of my voice?
Longing of my soul?
Must it all be packed away
in the memory of what was me?
And if I do this thing,
will you be there?
And will you be enough?
September, 2004 |