If it is
for one to say the rosary,
that takes a week, a bead,
let it be so by this means.
Five days of full articulation,
then two days
of restive recoil into recovery.
Such is the order necessary
as invocation
towards the next bead,
to grapple with the next interim
of daily repeated particulars
with an inwardly soft presence
but firmly grasped rituals
that provide a carriage of concern,
yet vital whispers of sincerities
in actions of conscious intent,
that treat as sacred, next emotions,
yet speak to find heart amid
the great silence
amid consternations.
This rosary,
bearing souls so privately
while burning paradoxes
of peopled predicaments
before one’s eyes.
This rosary,
is saying it so clearly
until it, this rosary of itself,
the complete thoroughness of it
is saying you,
the bare bones bottomlessness
of life as you.
Until it is pronouncing
all the illogicals,
until it is enunciating
all the preponderances,
all the inconceivables,
all the disquietings,
bound by absurd
reality constructions
that abound,
word after word,
phrase after phrase,
week after week,
as bead after bead.
This rosary,
a ritual of resounding passage
in repetitive responses,
made meaningful,
out of menial and the necessary,
out of unreasonable
and the irrational,
out of awkward
and the perverse,
out of empathy
and the ever concern,
out of soul searching
and the sweet dignity of being.
Beyond the lip service to reality,
this rosary, as it is undertaken,
persists, as each bead,
in and of itself,
becomes the spirit
expressing the being . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment