The white haired monk
lights a candle
on the altar;

his tonsured head
bows to the Christ;
his aged fingers

hold
the long lit
taper.

I help make soup
in the kitchen,
the cook monk,

watches
my every move;
I recall

how she ******
me in,
her whole body

vibrated
to my motion.
Dom James walks

from the orchard,
a basket of fruit
beneath his arm;

the sun warm,
the hour
a midday calm.