we wait.
tucking demons behind doors,
the skeptics and saints reveal
their mysteries in brazen piety.
this is art.
whispering, softly whispering
behind gnarled hands curled in rosary beads,
she stares out the window,
as vague and poignant as the virgin's somnolence
set in stone.
she folds in moments
and rocks herself to sleep;
finished with the mockeries of daily hope.
delicious is the stagnant air of the past.
He is here.
the stigmata tickle like butterflies
with the rush and birth of life.
sweet delirium lies in dim hues and shadows.
we wait.
ladies under veils bow deeply
and imaginary church bells chime.
the humble are moved by His infinite grace.
Padre Pio is here;
with a sweet mint on his tongue,
cradling our fear of mystery.
the kinives are surely blessed
and no bitterness is left to find
under the burnt carpet.
she's as pure as regret.
gardens come alive
in the damp cold on the hill.
bountiful, heavenly blooms of plenty,
dripping with blood and pain,
blaze through the snow.
so red.
can you smell the roses?
she whispers, softly whispers.
(c)Stephanee Howell
published in Skipping Stones 2007
Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA
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