Although he’s not a priest, he’s made an altar
Beneath his eastern window. When the first sun
Strikes the maple tabletop, the shine
Calls to him. It’s there he keeps his psalter
Between two beeswax candles. Christ Pantocrator
Gleams in red and gold, His life-book open
In His hand. Unreadable words, unspoken,
Catch at the hermit’s mind. He is no Doctor
Of the Church, only a man who, aching, kneels
In morning light, repeating prayers that come
Ready-made in his own tongue, though they
Lose much in this translation. Still, he feels,
As he waits, some seam un-sew itself inside him.
Words trickle out. They tell him what to say.
'The Hermit Prays the Liturgy of the Hours' have 2 comments
October 4, 2020 @ 6:24 pm Henry HAM
This is very enlightening, encouraging, and lovely in every way.
October 6, 2020 @ 12:34 pm Stephanie Traylor
That was lovely to read. It’s very much akin to the poetry I like to write, so it felt familiar and comforting all at once. Thank you for sharing.