Back at Work

Again a Child

There is texture to the soul of the Abbey,
easily caressed in closely stacked stones,
gnarled trees and ancient footprints on garden paths …
but those are for a child’s fingers.

There is music ‘bout the soul of the Abbey,
now whispered lonely in moonlit yearning fronds,
buds of tomorrow’s bloom and trembling webs of dew …
but these are meant for children’s ears.

There are shadows on the soul of the Abbey,
revealed in crisscrossed dawning and lantern glow,
reflecting laughing eyes and shameless tears of joy …
for seeing a simple child in everyone.

and then the flame is quenched,
and the sun touches the meadow,
and the world awakes
too late.