In a sisterhood of
ancient lights,
it begins. . . .

In a teeming night sky
ripping open
the unseen
and existing perfectly
without me,
it arrives . . .

But usually the Universe
unscrolls and flies
open like mercy
in the unquestioning love
of a cat—
those eyes of grace
and wild clarity—


It's all worship,
all sacrament,
all God,

even the strand of
distant smoke
strumming the tin air
and wafting
out the blues,

even the chatter of friends
or an icy river finding
gold redemption.

Wonder . . .

bits of happiness
chiseled on the stillness—
one move
and they're gone,
and even now I ask:
How do I know?
How can I
be sure?

No need for questions
when the unknowable
touches the dense world
and the unsaid
replaces mortal words
and even some frail tune
plucked from the
fluid wind

before breaking apart

in wonder.

With purrs of light chanting,
with God in a swarm of stars,
with everything now perfect
in its imperfection,

I know.


Patricia Joan Jones