Vespers

Poem by Fr. Bonaventure Sauer, OCD

In this is love: not that we have loved God,
but that he loved us….1 Jn. 4:10

In the city, flowers lean from the windowsills—
They are gypsy women looking for romance.
Greenery floods the park, forcing trees up
Through the sidewalks. They rise high overhead
And spread their blankets of shade. No picnic
Follows, though, for the people march quickly by,
Locked in their military exercises.

The air, fat
With possibility, veers first red, then purplish,
As the sun lies down among lions. Crimson
Was the color of the robe Jesus wore, briefly,
At the end—let me not forget it as day subsides
Into darkness, and the marvel who is Venus
Appears, a chip of ice that melts in my heart.

I understand. It is clear. The universe is in love
With its every creature. My bones are assembled
In a workshop where dwarves join voices
And sing Sixteen Tons. Now, with sinews supplied,
I walk around topside, singing Volaré to myself.
The world and its raptures are a wonder to behold.