Ribbons blowing in the sanctuary door, mock the eagle feathers flaming up
in your dream, father. The psychic bonfire in your sleep burns not far from
the sliding barn door of your church. The one your inheritance bought, that a bishop officially bequeathed to you as a monastery sanctuary. Where two brothers, ex-students, join you in offering a folk music mass for disgruntled Catholics, married ex-priests and nuns. Lively homilies, guitar melodies rebirth dusty liturgy. Yet, sadly, you say, more than once you have dreamed of an eagle, its wings roasting on a fiery grate, trying to rise. . . and though we’d just begun the session you requested, our eyes meet, your voice fades. Trembles. “Our meeting is best postponed.” No discussion of eagle farsight.
Leadership of those who wear its feathers.

Your paintings duplicate
indigenous design exactly:
replicas of color photographs
of tribal robes, blankets, rugs.
Forming them into mandalas
takes hours and a magnifying
glass. But the vivified faces
gazing out of ornate costumes
you sketch in a few strokes—
familiar faces of oblates care-
taking the repurposed barn.
“Our angels” you call them.
Cards of their ornate portraits–-
adjoined to Biblical quotes—
defray the cost of services
and guest rooms for visitors
needing a few days of quiet.
A Benedictine tradition.