No one says a word
as the bread comes around
warm
yeasty
given out
a half at a time
like the Eucharist
to pilgrims
knelt at
a rail
as the bread comes around
warm
yeasty
given out
a half at a time
like the Eucharist
to pilgrims
knelt at
a rail
The silence is requested
by our trinity of hosts
Whose wisdom
about such
matters
is proven by
the palpable calm
A broth
ladled out
all around this
place
This
taciturnity
is awkward for us novitiates
We sit in a circle of
wordless
gestation
Not knowing where to land our gaze
Embarrassed by our contingency
Disbelieving it could be so simple
The only reports
are
the chewing of asparagus
the pouring of Chardonnay
and a
hoot owl
across the road
either
adding more noise
to the cacophony of the planet
or singing
a Song
we are too hurried to know
It goes on like this for a time
creatures
celebrating
the Creator's
kindness
It presents as
intimidating
It soon proves
liberating
I hear the sound of my body's worship
Then she breaks the silence
This stranger in the corner of the circle
Who is this
who tramples on our hosts' request?
She merely wants to know
why some have quiche
and others a stew
with spinach
and
sausage
Instantly my stew and I
become
Pharisees
Silently insisting
on the strict rule of Law
The sausage and spinach whisper
that
Something must be said
about this stark
violation
Let Her Speak
my bread instructs us
staring up at me
from the patten
in my lap
Let her break the silence
and know she is still
alive
Grant her
In your own heart at least
the dignity of inquiry
For whatever else may be lost
her synapses still
perform
with the confidence
of a tightrope walker
up on that
taunt line
stretched across
what little
remains
below
Besides
Curiosity
is the engine
of living
Now tutored
and
humbled
we suppose
My stew and I
If any deserve the spirit
and not the letter
it would be
the
eldest
among us
She
whose skin
maps the long years
Whose bones carry on just below the surface
Who walks from there to hear
like that highwire artist
slowly
carefully
meditating
on each step
Her eldest
behind her on the rope
watching each placement
Both
worried
and proud
Her mother
our Sometimes Silent Sister
knows better than we
the blessed burden of these mortal coils
and about learning
to count the
days
That's why
she eats
with laboratory precision
Every forkful
now
a balancing act
a placement of the Host
The circle returns to silence
the Mystery of the Quiche
now resolved
And I return to the hoot owl
across the road
making love
for God
And the sound of this bread
Wiser than I
Soaked in stew
Teaching all spinach souls
Giving itself
for me
in mastication
inside
my
kneeling
mouth
