primary-merton
Thomas Merton in the fields near the Abbey of Gethsemani. (Credit: Sybille Akers)

At Thomas Merton’s Grave

We can never be with loss too long.
Behind the warped door that sticks,
the wood thrush calls to the monks,
pausing upon the stone crucifix,
singing: “I am marvelous alone!”
Thrash, thrash goes the hayfield:
rows of marrow and bone undone.
The horizon’s flashing fastens tight,
sealing the blue hills with vermilion.
Moss dyes a squirrel’s skull green.
The cemetery expands its borders—
little milky crosses grow like teeth.
How kind time is, altering space
so nothing stays wrong; and light,
more new light, always arrives.

–Spencer Reece

I float this one out for some Sunday morning wisdom.

From the Poetry Foundation: Spencer Reece is a postulant for holy orders to the Episcopal priesthood. The Clerk’s Tale won the Bakeless Prize in 2003. His “Two Hospice Essays” won a Pushcart Prize for 2009.

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