Why do I always choose
to do the reasonable thing
when another day is
happening
without me?

And see,
I almost missed it again:
a glimpse of a deer,
as feminine as any
Pre-Raphael goddess, and
I'm sure she knows it . . .

Or the fragrance of mist
that could be something wild
or something holy,
all I know is that it
has taken me through the
portal to my
childhood,
to the Catholic masses,
those sung in Latin,

when the sprawling vowels
of priestly chants
wore the room like a veil
and lifted us
like pious moths
to a flame of redemption,

till everything unimportant
vanished in that
gold-plated, midnight-scented,
tear-washed epic,

but this time,
in this diamond spot
of understanding,
there are no nuns like
cloaked soldiers,
and nothing to fear
if I sing while others
are silent,
or dance like a fool
while others are still, or
choose to be who I was
before they made
me who I am,

to love without needing,
to pray without words,
to be this day
in a ferocious life,
to be a practicing immortal
on currents of light
I cannot fathom
or stop.

Just silent.
Just here.

Patricia Joan Jones