Chaucer’s words sleeping all the night with open ee-ye,
so pricks them nature in their `corages,’
`than longen folk’ to go on `pilgirmmages’
from every shire’s end of ‘Engelond,
to Caunterbury they wende’… Empty bladder. Start the fires.
Pull on coveralls, downstairs to my calefactory,
laundry with a large wood stove, still warm,
red coals, fragments of cedar added, split wood
providing a desired-hot office for Raymonde.
Coals smoldering, fire rekindled up above
providing warmth for the living room
temperature still falling already -10 F -23 C
world still whirled here and so I am awaking
warm inside my quiet-friendly rectory.
It was not only cool that greeted me on rising;
the lovely humble Christmas tree luminous
standing silently in the living room, shining
brightly seen or unseen, saying nothing,
speaking silently by silence to silence.
Drinking coffee comes right to mind—wake up juice—
Instant should suffice early building and tending fires
after letting Moses out business-like before
he finds relief atop a snow drift in the kennel yard
under a sliver moon set in frigid-black heaven-sea.
Fragments of dreams return to consciousness:
again in a monastery, this time with Sr. Marielle,
dear friend and sister in Christ, welcoming pilgrims
seeking spiritual refreshment with Benedictines
gathering them in their warmly lit calefactory.
Today January 3rd, Voegelin’s birthday,
and first day of trading for the year--
Fox Business: market futures up, green letters,
and I wonder what I might buy for my Roth-IRA,
freshly stocked with New Year’s contribution.
0320 when I first saw a clock,
now 0426 on my Apple Watch,
sipping Taster’s Choice, jotting down these notes,
not listening to market analysts’ banter
but striving to find and build a little consciousness.