~ Mellisuga helenae
It’s so quiet at night.
In these rooms, each one
prays in her own compartment
to whatever gods might listen
this side of the ocean. Don’t you
want to be accounted for too,
invited in: no longer the permanent
house guest, no longer the dark-
skinned maid with the chamois rag,
betrothed to furniture perennially
in need of polishing? The silences
don’t necessarily mean the saints
have retreated into their rose quartz
caverns, lain down in their fern-lined
crypts. If you see a butterfly or humming-
bird drumming on a plume for nectar,
think of what the soul must have been
before it fell into this world.
In response to Via Negativa: News Junkie.