Illumination

As if some monk bored
in the cold scriptorium
had let his quill

wander from the morning
Gospel, two tendrils
of wisteria

have scrolled
their green fervor
into the weave of a wicker

deck chair to whisper
with each spiral,
every sweet leaf

and dew sparkle,
Brother, come
with us, come home.

R. T. Smith
Poetry
Volume CLXIX, Number 5
March 1997

Copyright © 1997 by The Modern Poetry Association.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.