Chronicles of the Monastery: II

In later years, the girl would play there
as she neared the threshold
the days dropped like pebbles in a pond.
Forever gone, the magic would soon dissolve
and she would emerge a woman
no longer able to play in quite the same way.

Entering the monastery the back way
before the mean watchdogs were installed.
Walking the long driveway
the outer courts
into the holy place.
Past the groves of trees
the old stone abbey
the rose garden
the wishing fountain
bright coins glinting copper and silver
in the summer sun.
Past the chapel of the icons
with its recorded voice
which never failed to startle
explaining the significance of
the various saints and martyrs
for the ignorant or unfaithful.
Past the sculptures of the life of Christ.

The monastery had two levels.
At first she would stay in the upper part
swimming in the ponds that were there
really for aesthetic and not actual pleasure.
Splashing happily with her dogs
the Japanese tourists would look on with horror,
but the nuns never caught her.

As childhood play left here
and adolescent pensiveness descended
she would come alone,
seeking isolation
dreaming for hours
and search her soul for meaning.
She went to the lower level now.
The cathedral held countless wonders
for Protestant eyes.
Stained glass shining colored light everywhere.
Holy water, the confessionals.
Endowing common faith with
holy mystery and wonder.
There was also a grotto down there,
a large recess in a Cave
which contained pastel sculptures of
Mary, holding the dead Christ
in her arms.
Lit by waning daylight and candles.