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Dave Bonta
four in the morning
my ears coming clear
like the lives of nuns
Infinite gentleness, infinite irony
Are in this face with fast-sealed eyes,
And round this mouth that learned in loneliness
How useless their wisdom is to the wise.
In her nun’s habit carved, patiently, lovingly,
By one who knew the ways of womankind,
This woman’s face still keeps, in its cold wistful calm,
All of the subtle pride of her mind.
These long patrician hands, clasping the crucifix,
Show she had weighed the world, her will was set;
These pale curved lips of hers, holding their hidden smile,
Once having made their choice, knew no regret.
She was of those who hoard their own thoughts carefully,
Feeling them far too dear to give away,
Content to look at life with the high, insolent
On city pavements
Two muffled, sombre nuns pace,
Behind laughing girls.
One day they came; I heard their feet.
They made a tapping on the street.
And as they passed before our trees,
Their shawls blew out in curves like threes,
And bent again in twos and L's;
The wind blew on their rosaries
And made them ring like little bells.