The Road to Sènanque              
                  

On the Sunday afternoon we entered
the canyon road to Sènanque, we were
feeding ourselves on daydreams, we were
wondering if this was our last trip to France
even as we craved the stern, hard-breathing beauty
of one more Cistercian abbey. If we were clothing
the memories of our youthful bodies
in bikinis and thongs instead of monastic gowns
it was because of the hot dry wind in Provence
or because of the scent of each other's groins on our fingertips
or because of the way our cremated ashes would sizzle
the day they hit the water. Lovely are
the thighs and shoulders of the monks still living
in seclusion at Sènanque, knotting the corners of their robes
before they walk in the wind and imagine themselves
wearing garments of owl feathers and pine.
To love beyond all measure: would we finally learn
what that means if we meditated on stone benches
and slept on straw beds on the floor, if we prayed,
planted lavender and cultivated honey, if we lost all courage
but stayed on the high narrow road to Sènanque?
Beautiful are your shoulders and your voice at the moment
when it first breaks the morning silence as we enter another day
to imagine ourselves traveling a blue, intimate void
chanting words that leave echoes like protective charms
and watch while the snow fills our door until
we feel ourselves become both mountain pass and sky.