LECTIO DIVINA 1971

A YOUNG MAN ON THE BRINK OF MONKHOOD IN 1971

Lectio divina,
page turning,
finger and thumb
turning slow.

There's a large
wooden crucifix
on the wall
above the bed,

palm leaf,
dried white,
stuffed behind
the Crucified's back.

I sit there,
at the large oak desk,
page turning,
eye scanning,

word consuming,
concept digesting.
Still taste the brown bread
and warm tea.

Dom Charles sliced
thinner his bread,
scant the butter applied,
black coffee sipped,

I remember,
sitting back in the chair,
eyeing the window,
scene beyond,

grey sky,
birds in flight.
Cloister clock chimes
the quarter.

The French monk
(peasant stock)
nibbled stale bread,
sans butter or jam,

sipped milk less tea,
gazed at me,
sad eyes,
dark crab eyes.

If you're quick,
she said,
you can have me,
he won't be back until late,

take me here,
the words are too many,
some in Latin,
ita desíderat

ánima mea ad te,
Deus,
longs for you,
my soul,

o God,
I try to translate,
sensing her fingers,
touch and hold.

The aged monk,
seen in the common room
that year, spoke
with his brother,

I watched sitting nearby,
hearing their words
of childhood,
memories, news.

Quare tristis es,
ánima mea?
Why so sad my soul,
my mind?

I close the book,
a shush of dust,
air excluded, shut.
Her tongue tongues me,

her fingers finger,
Dom Joseph
placed his finger
to his lips

reminding me
of the Grand Silence
as I went to speak,
I nodded,

of course, forgot,  
the refectory calmed,
lights above,
each monk facing

a wall or window,
eyes closed or opened,
thoughts on God
or deeds or not.

The Crucified on his cross
in my cell, eyes closed,
head to one side,
nailed hands and feet,

and she said,
place a finger here,
light from morning sun
begins to warm the air,

glad she's away,
not here, but there.