Here I sit a mystic in my closet
under the spell of the long loneliness,
a seeker of small miracles:
the spectral hues each morning or evening brings.
Needing to die to self,
but not enough;
I fall seven times daily.
Knowing life would be far lonelier
without the fellowship
of my worldly goods:
Tubular wind chimes
resonant with the pitch of the Angelus bell
Teal bowl of blueberries
ripe with the taste of Michigan orchards
rich with the absorbed color of sky-over-lake
Chipped pottery mug
heavy with the heat of the August midday
it was given new purpose at a barn sale
Black-and-white Dorothy Day poster
brotherhood shouted above wicker shelves
with side-by-side books
Wisdom readings
from Desert Mothers and Benedictine Sisters,
soul mates who offer the inner anchor-hold
to my floating life:
The sense of Presence
That carries me on…