As It Were

“You fill the air with mystic scent, which I breathe in whenever I grow faint; it give sufficient

Foretaste of the peace that is to come.”

-St. Thérèse of Lisieux

A pinch of salt,

A whisper of myrrh, that mystic scent

Of crystal-blue ascent,

A drop of rhyme, of

Wild thyme and lemon lime—

Flâneur des fleurs mieux, mon nouveau jardin, quelle fête!

A dream of streams, of goodness

And fresh mint leaves,

A trinkle of færïe,

Sweet mallow and honeybees—

Hallow denizen of the alder grove,

Lavern’s burn and savage wold,

Green-mantled and

Adorned with wise, nodding strawberries—

Wings laced with Magic.

“She refreshed her body

As it were with dew…”

And so, in this way,

Your thoughts became my home,

Carpeting the valley floor of my mind,

All bedecked with little

White stars and their

Holy murmurs;

My resting place

Moistened by Your sacred tears

As it were with sapphires,

Those sunlit drops of

Dancing stillness,

Milk blue globes on blades of grass

Trembling,

Trembling in the

Hyperborean winds.