1.

Like a giant chrysanthemum in full bloom,
Carmelite nuns in white habits overflow
the chapel of the Gothic church carved
exquisitely into the Spanish hillside.

Faces averted from the pressing
crowds, voices rising in ethereal
harmony, the nuns sing the world awake,
seeking absolution for its night
of restless sins.

An empty crucifix hangs as the only
stick of imagery on the Spartan,
straitened walls of their cells,
illuminated by a tiny opening
ten feet above the penitent floor.

They would surprise their audience
if its members knew that after
each vespers service, the nuns quickly, quietly
meld into the foreboding night,
sleuths on the trail of their greatest treasure,
the Beloved, who alone can satisfy
their deepest yearning:
abiding union with Him.

2.

Slicing through hedgerows, thickets
and medieval gates; scurrying past pristine gardens
and quiet patios, they flee the convent
in the dark, moving by trust and desire, not sight.

Under a brooding half-moon,
their habits turn slate-gray, as they begin
the spiraling ascent to the peak
of Mount Carmel, where their Beloved awaits.

It is no easy climb. Scrambling, falling,
grabbing low-lying branches to pull
themselves forward. Discalced—shoeless—
they slip and slide, cutting and bruising themselves.
Dehydrated, with no light to guide them,
they fear losing their way.
Knees scuffed, sweating, breathing heavily,
they struggle to stave off chaos and disorder.

3.

The nuns know that the Beloved’s love
for them is their greatest good. And they know
that their natural faculties are inadequate
to achieve the union they desire.
So they must put their senses to sleep, and let
the Beloved’s own virtues guide them up the mountain,
drawing them to Himself through
His power infused into their souls.

To receive Him they must be like Him;
They must be brought to nada inwardly
To be filled with His todo.
This is becoming like for like.
This is how to ascend the heights of Mount Carmel.
This is the mystic vision.

4.

At night, the nuns remain hard at work chasing
their ecstatic dream. In the pre-dawn hours
of the morning, they return to their mundane,
daily post at the convent, selling marzipan
to visitors through a miniscule opening
to the outside world; *****-faced urchins press
against the iron grate, awaiting their turn.

With sensations of the holy pursuit
still freshly imprinted on their minds,
the nuns recognize that this, too — in all its
worldly humility — is part of the mystic vision.

Soon, they will sing the world awake again.