There was faith in
The moving of
The ebony
Wooden beads of
The rosary
Between finger
And thumb; the feel
There; the smoothness
From years of touch
And feel; the prayers,
The messages sent,
The arthritic
Fingers and bent
Crooked thumb, do
Not relent from
Harsh dawn till dusk;
The words; the sighs
And the old nun,
Gazing half-blind,
Into the cold
Sanctuary where
The altar light
Shines and the cold
Darkness creeps deep
Into her bones
And aging flesh.
recommend this
email
print
link to this page
Comments: 10
This one hit home.
Thank you all for your kind comments.