Silent Orders

by Terry McDonagh

There were druids, ascetics and
abbesses long before our day.
Some moved on, heard light
and became saints. Most lived
in routines of matins, vespers,
fine wines and herb gardens.
They had honey and garlic in
their bones and could be seen
in purple fields smiling alone.
They didn’t need to screw up
their eyes looking for playmates
or lie on their backs to tarnish
their faces in July heat. They’d
amble to and from toil when
bells tolled and speak when
spoken to. Hills and valleys
joined with them in worship.
There was no panic in the fields.

If, for once, we could be quiet,
down tools and listen, we might
hear them — silent as ever — in cells.
      It has to do with love. It’s no secret.