Morning opens evening blue flowers, beside the green garden.Light slants like whispers in a white dress, the first communion when she spoke to God.
The father and son, still asleep.
Breakfast, a puzzle, awaits as she assembles
unknown portraits in the choirs of the heart.
Deep in the closet, her dress falls in places
where meanings hide meanings, nesting like birds.
They gather. Their faces. It all fits together.
You see something familiar, a trick of the eye.
White lace, like the dress that follows.
She talks to God; the mirror answers with signs
of aging: hair, make-up, earrings, a necklace, perfume,
shoes slide smoothly onto long forgotten feet.
The ring. God hears her move in the kitchen, matching
colors. Eyes blue as evening, watching through plates,
cups, and glasses; through windows.
Meeting the hopeful patterns, repeated.
She walks her mother’s path, the one without
dances, lined with statues and gravestones,
visited by angels with shadows that sparkle.
Inside the cathedral, each muffled sound
wrapped in a soft package, soothing.
Beside the black benches, book-lined,
Mary intoned in mental sculptures.
The Virgin; her girlhood.
Sun slants in reds, greens, and yellows,
visual echoes, poems like new roses,
petals unwinding in motionless spirals.
Windows, with their stained glass
beauty, kind-hearted like her.
Words slip onto their knees, releasing
relentless questions, a feast of sorrows
resonating the void. Haunting shapes
in ornate clothing, eyes closed, head
bowed, face still as prayer unfolds
its wings in the silence of her soul.
Untranslatable yearning arrested in flight.
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