June 8, 2022

The crush of bodies, bow ties, suits,
sleek smiling women dressed in silk,
the din of small talk drowning thought,
and all I yearn for is escape but where
to flee when all around the high-walled
room glass-fronted cases hold me trapped.
Or so I think until I look, and there beneath
the glass I find Thomas Merton, sacred
friend, who writes, I read, to Rachel Carson
who, there beside him, then replies, and
Annie Dillard, I find her, the final draft of
Tinker Creek, the typed page inked, words
penciled in, and Wendell Berry, I greet him,
along with others, many more, these soul
companions on the way who, circling me,
in silence, speak of trees and stars and roots
and wings, the mystery within all things.