Veni Si Amas--- A Poem

My day has been filled with lots of poetry, so I might as well fill in with a little more. Sometimes I write poetry. I don't claim to be highly original, inspiring, or schooled in the art of meter, but yes, sometimes I write poetry.

This poem is called "Veni Si Amas", it is about the chapel at a convent I visited two summers ago. 'Veni Si Amas' is Latin for 'Come if you Love' and it is written on the gates to the convent grounds.

Enjoy.

Veni Si Amas

If Wisdom had a voice,

it would sound like the old pipe organ upstairs,

The rich and candid sound,

 Is unmistakable,

and carries with it

the history of all its year

with every note,

Easter Vigil,

Christmas Mass,

and every Sunday in between.

And even now, in all the stillness

as I sit on a tired-out pew near the back of the sanctuary

if I listen hard enough,

I can swear I hear organ notes

from two years ago

still chasing each other

through the nooks and crannies

of the convent chapel

to remind the weathered stone

that some things,

 never change.

The  stained glass window

fractures the late afternoon light

into water color paint

 spilled on the marble floor

that is sure enough of itself

that it doesn't need to mix

to make new color.

Dust motes swirl

in the painted light

glittering bits of broken stars

only visible

during select times of

day.

The upholstery  on the kneelers

is the same wet-tree- bark brown  as the robes

that the statue of St. Francis

is wearing on the left side of the altar

and though the Sisters here are Franciscan,

their habits are the color of

the sky when the sun has risen

but is not yet visible above the housetops.

A tranquil grey

not yet giving way to blue.

In front of me, and to the left

sits a little nun

all clothed in pre-dawn sky

her veil is black though,

the color her habit would be

a few hours closer to midnight.

I was told that if you live in the convent

for long enough,

even though all of the sisters look the same

from the back,

you can tell who is who

by the way the habit clings

or the veil falls

or the shoes squeak

or the shoulders spread,

or the way hands clasp in prayer

but as I have yet to inherit this skill

the nun in front of me

remains beautifully

anonymous.

And we are in separate worlds right now,

she and I.

I am amongst the weathered stone.

And brown kneelers,

and anticipation of dishes to wash later.

She is  in the world, and not of it,

in a place no one else can touch

(maybe there are clouds the color of her habit there)

where she speaks to the God she married.

She has a prayer book sitting next to her

all dog ears

and colored ribbons

musty pages that can't help but whisper when they turn

small print

and a spine that cracks

almost as much as my own.

The bottoms of her shoes are scuffed.

Mostly the toes

and not the heels.

Either she is light on her feet

or she spends a lot of time

crouching

next to the little children

at the Sister's school.

She is young.

Her hands are unwrinkled

as they clasp at her rosary beads.

Though her face remains hidden,

I can hear the whisper of a breath

that sneaks through her lips

at every "Glory Be".

Her posture is one of reverence

head bowed

hands clasped,

back straight.

Her posture is one of concentration

shoulders clenched

feet still.

The very existence

of such sisters:

their laughs far softer than the pipe organ,

their cooking,

their imperfect and crooked-toothed smiles,

their twilight games of frisbee on the front lawn,

their reverence and concentration

poured into every,

single

mandatory afternoon prayer

communicate a higher power to me,

far better than any long-winded

explanation of the Divinity of Christ.

The very lives they live

communicate cosmic secrets

far removed from our ordinary days

of five o'clock traffic

and coupons for milk.

As I watch

even the most elderly nun

lower herself carefully,

(like someone setting a final domino

in its place in a long chain)

to genuflect before the tabernacle

and a God she is sure is there,

I think:

if watching that

display of love,

so genuinely felt,

even after all of these years

isn't enough to make you

believe in God

maybe nothing ever will.