Father and Son at Saint Benoit

After the vespers, when the monks sat
scattered throughout the great basilica,
head lowered, no matter what, how far
afield their thoughts, indrawn, each sunk
into himself, into silence, into and toward
the depth that has no chart, no measure,
the innermost reach where sound begins
that is the heart’s sole property,
pure chords of the celestial harmony
that alone can stir the reverent,
attentive individual, for there is
the assurance there, the reality to which
these men have consecrated their lives.
Having surely absorbed as hymnal praise
the slender gracefulness,
the upward soaring columns, arches
in whose midst they now sat, they were,
indrawn, in their black cowls, like
blackbirds on lawns, on branches, asleep
perhaps, at any rate, whatever their
purpose, in that pose resting,
at rest until some impulse, some hidden
stirrings make them move their wings.

In this silence, pervasive then
as water in a sea, as love can be
when neared attentively, in a manner
appropriate to it, a boy
of about ten stood clasped in his father’s arms,
the father pressing the boy to him
as though reunited or while still
united but just before the parting that
must come. In this moment, this union,
the boy put his head upon his father’s arm
and let it lay where it belonged,
loved just then by the love that in
this stillness, this silence behind
sound, having filled the tall space
sanctified to it, was part of it
as water is in an ascending haze—
let his head rest in this embrace,
let it rest there for just a little while.