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Saint Agnostica is a chronicle of grief, love, and mystery.

“The feather flew, not because of anything
  in itself but because the air bore it along.”
                                      —Hildegard of Bingen

In her new movie, the filmmaker’s fascination with the myth of masculinity unfolds in 1920s Montana.

“We began to paint frescoes on the ruins of abandoned churches. We did not ask anyone’s permission.”

Mark 8:22–26

At first, when Jesus made the blind man see,
That man thought people looked like walking trees.
Why trees? The Bible commentators bicker
Until by insight or perhaps by liquor
They suddenly catch the quirky point of view
Of someone to whom everything looks new.     

But what of us? Aren’t we still partly blind?
When we see all, what peace will ease our minds
As we the trees find a Cross took our place
And what we see we now see face to face.

When churches whitewashed their walls, they left themselves vulnerable.

Morning. I watch the windows come to light—
each according to ability or need or willingness—

in my east-facing living room. I wait.
Too soon this time will pass. Minutes from now

today arrives, I’ll have to be one man
to my wife and children, everyone I meet.

But now the windows’ musics no one hears
but the angels passing for their moments

across these panes. Let me count them.
How many can I number Heaven as it transpires

I say to the third angel, the one I pull down now,
the one who blesses and is blessed