Poem for the Thirty-Third Day of Lent
It seemed a small, inconsequential ripple on the
surface of an ordinary day; a causeless wind
had risen from a placid bit of sky, dislodging a
mimosa stem distinctive for its pinkish silkiness
and scarcity—the only blossom of its kind for
acres upon miles and recognizable by rows of
arches bearing tiny, oval leaves in pairs,
unanimated partners in an English country
dance; the petals too are unremarkable at first,
too pale to draw the eye, and circular, like
almost-white confetti.
Then I wondered why I noticed it at all, this
inconspicuous, lopsided, faintly aromatic bit of
tree, though, inattentive as I tend to be, it likely
thwacked me on the head. Perhaps I was
reminded of a sigh as from a lady robin settling
in—a plumpish mound of feathers, rust-red belly,
glossy wings, and watchful eye, a shelter for the
objects of her sole responsibility… her task
exquisitely uncomplicated, satisfying
nonetheless, affording her the sweetest possible
contentment, since—without the least idea
why—she does the job she absolutely must, the
very thing the universe insists upon and in the
only way that she, in body, soul, and spirit, can
give comfort and receive it.
There are those more learned and articulate
than I who understand the management of
such impeccable performances—some who, in
the name of knowledge, out of curiosity, assign
particular behavior to material stimuli and dare
to ask if creatures love or merely seek to share a
warm, dry place in order to survive. But I am
certain that, when something seeming
unextraordinary tugs at my attention, God has
sent an invitation to be witness to a miracle,
reminding me to scrape the cobwebs from my
eyes and clear my vision, so that when a
common dawn throws warm, fresh sunlight in
great bands across the sleeping plain, which
fairly leaps with sudden jubilation at the hint of
summer, greening as days lengthen, quickening
apace, I see in the changing, always and
inevitably, grace.
Sister Alma Rose Has the Last Word 