Sabbath (Meditation on St. Benedict)

Unplug, slow down, and savor
the warm grays of Irish sky.
Substance and form.
Just as there is a rhythm in the sun's daily rising and falling,
and the moon's monthly waxing and waning,
there is comfort in the predictability of Irish mist and rain,
greening the soil,
nourishing the soul.

Hedges and stone walls,
yet in one shared cosmic space,
where my bleeding heart begins to heal.

The sudden sun illuminates the wall of ivy outside my window,
and the bird sings.

Warm chatter and clanking dishes,
a Sunday serenade.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019


Popular posts from this blog

Letter to my future self

Still the Birds Sing