The monk raises
the host
during Mass,
high between fingers
and thumbs,
head and eyes
look up,
the Body of Christ,
he tones.
I watch
the old monk eat;
his jaw moving
in a semi circle
as he ate,
his eyes down
on his plate,
an old French
soup spoon
half way
from bowl to lips.
I remember her hands
sorting through
my garments
for the fellow,
her eyes intent,
her fingers nimble
as an artisan's.
A French peasant monk
peels potatoes
in the kitchen
with the seriousness
of Van Gogh
in a darker mood,
thinking of deeper things
than wine or food.
MONKS AND A NOVICE IN AN ABBEY IN 1971