Sanctum, Sanatorium

If we are our friends then are you eclectic?
No. Instead, you take after Saint Brendan —
The Irish monk from county Kerry —
Who through his travels saw
That small towns in which you are born
Bear little resemblance to who you are.
The struggle to free ourselves from forced labor,
And face the pile of words we have become,
Has driven me to wonder how you’ll read
When your last breath drops petals on the floor.
For now, you sit in Charles’ saintly town,
And peer through family-tinted, bridal eyes;
You wonder when you’ll venture off the porch
And wander into your verbal sentence.
Apostles, martyrs, matrons, widows, all,
Have widened paths for nothing more than
Wanting peace for ever more. Your path —
Peat moss, bluets, partridge berry, and
Soothing streams of sun’s delight —
Rolls out before the one and only,
The only one who’s never lonely.
When we are old (we’ll never say),
Will we look back and ask ourselves,
“On which page did I look my best?”
Will we recall angelic faces
From the sanctuary of paragraphs
Written in the city of brotherly love?
Heaven only knows.

– 5 December 1997