born into this stage
of life a day after Bonaventure’s feast
the Seraphic Doctor pointing to
a thing sensed or a thing known

this is our mission—
stillness & silence
to loosen the grip
to lock an old habit into a box
& prepare ourselves for a new one

silence is as loud as crows
gentle as a fat snail curled
in on itself, frail as aged
terra cotta pots, potent
as living at a pilgrimage spot—
though we don’t always know
what we’re listening for

so we press our ears to what is beyond
walking along the crumbling coastline
of the false self, pleading
for a voice that isn’t
our own to speak clear
as blue jay calls in the nearby palm

then across the hall
a brother sings a Spanish tune
another brother strums guitar
cords & of course, maybe this
is what we’re waiting for—

brothers pointing toward God