Poetry

My quietest hours, when longings cease,
In predawn peace steadfast and billowy
I ramble, pondering those Mysteries,
That safe sylva, the Holy Rosary.
My intellect arbor, frowzy at first,
Entwined in every viney distraction
Became clearer, more sure: If thought is thirst,
Daily prayer is holy liquefaction.
Mary and her Son branch around me now -
No blasted air expelled by Satan's sob
Unlimbs them.  Phoebe, pray, alight the bough,
And drowse in an aerie while still a squab.
Preen well for him for whom wee sparrows glide
You nestling dauntless on the mountainside.