I live in the woods, extended out on a small cot
and write on a large wooden desk, next to the window—
snow-covered spruce branches reach out, making my welcome felt;
the bell rings long before dawn, rousing me to dress and come to chapel—
to sing, worship. I wash at a gleaming white sink, thinking clean thoughts.
After pleasant dreams under an iron crucifix—hung by the monk-brothers.
There’s a cross in every room: omnipresent sway.
The image of Christ fills the space with respectful silence,
hung with early snow—reaching out.
AND if finding space outside the norm is not possible, CREATING SPACE by setting aside time in the MORNING to be alone with God is often just as good! – D.E.M.
THIS POEM APPEARS IN MY BOOK Approach