Not much of a poem but rather a monologue speaking to my soul's relief during this horrid time of COVID-19 monasticism. 




At Last, Rain

 

 

Since Boxing Day

A wasteland has inhabited

my now much withered soul

Prayer has been there daily

Meditation a semi constant


Sustenance  of course but

Merely to sustain survival

Not to flourish without a

Drop of extra to salve

The wasteland of my

Desecated spirit

 

Today the long locked

Church has open doors

Cautiously permitting 

To return to Mass

 

With the need for separation

Masks and sanitation

Sunday’s are set aside

For families and working folks

 

Older folks attend throughout 

The week as today I did

 

The liturgy of words

Flowed over me 

like summer mist

A soothing balm

 

At last the gentle rain

Of God’s own grace 

Fell soft upon my parched

And withered soul

Bringing forth it's

Joyous flower





Poetry by josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2021-02-26 at 00:44

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
I'm not a religious person, but what you felt, that wonderful sense of communal existence being reestablished, is one I look forward to experiencing somewhere, sometime.
2021-02-26


Thomas D The PoetBay support member heart!
I know how much that means to you and indeed to me, to be able to gather in church for a eucharist or even at this point for sung vespers! But especially for the sacraments. You've written about it supremely well, and I can certainly identify.
2021-02-26