Posted by: Jivani Lisa | September 20, 2015


Born on Ash Wednesday,
the pattern’s set:
celebration is mourning
and mourning is celebration.
The hermitess journeys far
without leaving her cell —
burning within and without.

Perhaps a bit of eye make-up
to brighten the day,
but the nearest color is gray.
Perhaps roasted S’mores tonight,
but the merry flames blacken
amid the fight — ah,

She remembers this joy:
a pleasant life-long task,
a most uncommon vocation —
to suffer, to lose, to cry,
as treasures turn to ash.

Nuns in their monasteries are
never called to such poverty
or distress as the ashen
hermitess within
the embers of her heart aglow —
poised to flash.

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