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The Cockroaches
One morning I awoke to find
The cockroaches were dead.
Not one left alive. About my feet they lay in piles-
Legs stiffly in the air, and faces to the sky,
As dry as leaves long withered in the sun.
And it moved upon my heart so strange-
The world had changed, now that they had gone;
No more shock of fright, or terror in the night,
Just when I thought my battle lost!
I looked about me, wrapt in awe,
At grassy hill and tree,
And my own dear house, now free,
And I wondered how this miracle had come to pass,
That I had not dared to hope,
And never asked.
I think some Mighty Hand
Had risen to my cause,
And then retreated silently,
Lest I find out too soon, and too unreadily,
What a thing it is that I am loved so well-
A secret to itself
That life must never tell.
Giles of St Francis kneels at the feet of her poor little brothers, the
cockroaches, and begs pardon of
them to forgive her for this poem. She confesses to them that she had
eaten too much green cheese
for supper before taking up her pen to write. She will perform the penance
of someday writing a
better one, but not today.
Spring
O newborn soul
My own true life
Beneath the skyQueen
of the world
Yet just a butterfly!
Small wonder that
The skylark soars,
And with its first song
Enthralls the very stones.
And I have forgotten
In this hour,
My struggle to be born.
New sunlight streams
Across my face
With its gentle kiss,
And I awake
To unfamiliar bliss
I lift my soul to Heaven,
And I sing.
But, more than that-
I breathe the air of freedom,
And take wing.
The Teacher {To the Memory of my Mother}
Like a lamb that love has tamed,
Beneath the starry sky,
Humbled by your dignity,
At your feet I lie.
How far along the road I've come!
And how much more I see-
A clear and true perception
Of what you meant to me.
Other peoples' visions
My spirit has outgrownI
had to know you truly,
And that you were my own.
I reach my hand to touch you-
Gracious as no other!
My first teacher,
My first friend-
Master, sister, mother!
I reach out to embrace you-
But you have gone before-
And yet, you hold me by the hand,
Still and evermore.
I see you now, I see you not-
The perfect thing, too dear:
If I could hold the thought of you,
Where is Heaven but here?
Sr. Giles (C) 2006
Edited
05/12/2008
Br Andrew EFO |
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