Walking with Kateri

My shoes, they crunch upon the gravel,
kicking up the dust,
sunlight spliced between the trees,
inviting wanderlust. 

Blue jay trills and woodpecker drills
in random soliloquy;
my failings and prayers cluster side by side --

restless soul needing wisdom to see.

 

I seek out Kateri, serene Mohawk friend,
perhaps standing beside a tree;
meek, unassuming, her Lily soul blooming,
she will fall in step with me. 

We walk, and we talk (but I hear only me),
the air growing fresh and pure;
I must improve much, but I feel her calm touch
upon me to reassure. 

As she departs, sweet hope springs alive
like a bursting, well-fanned flame;
and I know hope is due to this friend, mirror true
of His Love in her blessed name.  

(Written in honor of Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha, Lily of the Mohawks)

Words to a Departing Cathedral

Goodbye,

aged and blessed cathedral

where, by His touch,

deacon voices sprang alive,
where, under His gaze,
little candle-bearer upheld his flame

(wax dripping on his head),
from whose dim and dusty loft

ancient prayers took flight in song

(soaring past St. Martin de Tours on the high glass,

winging upward toward the dome),

whose pealing echoes

bore heart's secret notes

to the Prisoner

freed
by consecrated hands.