scattered divinities.

To live like a monk
is to walk slowly
noticing the curvings of the earth,
the gentle swells of breathing grass.
A monk dwells in holy sacred syllables:
Latin and Hebrew and Greek--
Sounds that cannot be made sense of
but are known in the soul
as one knows breath
and darkness
and light.
She lingers, noticing
small miracles,
And touches relics
with ordinary fingertips
just to feel the life lived
pulsing beneath the threadbare surface.

To live like a monk
is to see the world as a church,
every moment a cloister
where great mysteries unfold.
The air is never empty
but heavy with the flapping
of great unseen wings
as angels move to the pulse of time
in a rhythm ancient and eternal.
To live as a monk is to feel
that soft brush of holiness
fluttering softly against human skin.
She makes no pronouncements or prophecies,
but curls her lips in a quiet smile
and sings soft indecipherable songs
of sweet divinities scattered everywhere.