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, At Thomas Merton’s Grave

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