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Charity 
On the Wexford Road — sun
glinting, black frost hard
on the tarmac — I think of
Saint Aiden of Ferns,
a Connaught man stern
with grace. I have
seen in Dublin the bronze
case where his hand
bones and cross reposed
for centuries. He fed
strays and even the chapel
mice. Caught short
of alms one market day,
the holy brother bestowed
his horse on a beggar.
Reproached by a neighbor,
Aiden asked, "Is yon son
of a mare more precious
than yon son of God?"
Outside Kilurin this morning
where the road forks,
the young blackthorns
and birches are bare
as finger bones or
skeleton keys to heaven.
They could become
the relics of serious
Aiden, who kept at
Bishop's work, shrift
and strife, till at last
he happily surrendered
his breath and left his
form in a crypt.
Now legions of pilgrims
unsteady with greed
or sorrow of pain
can walk this cold road
and learn to be generous
as I yearn to be
empty and free
by following his path
and kneeling to warm
my brow on a stone.
A Lasting Fire
Not the quick flare
of Duraflame's pine
chips and chemicals
roaring up the flue
until the sham fire
smothers and dies,
but the yellow whisper
of a single match
small as a pen nib,
palm-cupped and
yielding its secret
to splinters. Then heat
will follow a ceder
curl's rim to catch
a split stick, wishbone
oak and skinned
poplar. Who keeps
a careful vigil,
lending skill
and breath, will see
the pile of twigs
ignite, the heart's
every fiber shedding
the steady light
of splendid method
and calm conviction
slowly going wild. |
