We Had a Paraffin Lamp and No Electricity

The monks nearby were no trouble
Their work was ethereal, not worldly
Their ethos not promoted, but used
Their influence, above words and thinking,
a gift to eternity

Our small cottage on the edge of the forest
was always dark and cold
Occasionally, when I went out to find logs,
I'd see a monk gathering mushrooms
or, further down the hill,
groups of them working on allotments
they never spoke

More out of curiosity than any known plan
I'd tried the handle of the door in their long northern wall
it had opened easily
I wandered in, to their library, and sat
enjoying the warmth of the wood fire

This was many years ago
Since then, and with repeated visits,
I have never been confronted or questioned
It is as if, in the silence,
these men are my friends
and know me well

~ ~ ~

You Whiteflash Out the Little Details

In the melt of snow tracks and split riverbeds
a new world            iron sword
pottery scarred with magic

Some touching lovestone moves the surface
a shadow of sand clouds the stream

Love is in the texture, in the silence
Only this, nothing else

~ ~ ~