Saturday, March 10, 2018
The Saints––poem by Dorothy
The Saints
These were not like us,
these ancient ones.
They lived in caves,
ate grass,
lashed themselves to poles
and stood one legged
in the sky.
Some flew up to the church ceiling,
then wondered how they
would get down.
Others healed by allowing those in need
to touch their hem,
receive grace through the eyes.
Yet we survive.
The rapture comes
and we receive.
Who can tell
how sweet and soft
it is,
or tumultuous
like a storm,
pulsation of bliss.
We have no guide
or explanation.
Only the wonder
of the real.
Merely the touch
of that which is.
Dorothy Walters
March 3, 2018
