The nun leaves
the warm parlour

off the cloister
and feels the cloisters’ cold

and biting frost of early dawn.
Each bite and nip

of toes and fingertips
a minor crucifixion.

My self my enemy
you shall not win.

The cross signifies
the crossing out of I,

the I’s greed and wants
and selfish such.

There is birdsong.
Smell that blossom.  

Do not rush, walk as told,
remember that.

Sense that cold.
Feel those nails,

hammering flesh,
co-joined with Christ,

as His bride, day
and tortured night.

See that fresh born sun;
night’s moon shies away.

The nun pauses.
Sniffs the air.

The time of bleeding.
Tombstone of another’s death.

She sees, smoke like,
her rising breath.