New Camaldoli Hermitage, Big Sur
This early morning, in the chill before light,
I lie open, face upward on the little bed,
a supplicant, body reflecting soul, ready
for something I cannot see, but crave.
I’m waiting, like any fern in a garden,
to be rained on, or sun-drenched.
Oh, I am little, little.
The day lifts its face over the Pacific
and a corner of sun touches the thin pillow.
I shift my head under its warm hand;
it moves across my face as I lie quite still.
It blesses my forehead with its holy oil.
What is blessing but a largeness
so immense it crowds out
everything but itself?