The cemetery garden

The gentle looking monk with a slight stoop greeted me kindly,

a blue apron tied around his black habit. He lowered

the squirt bottle he was using to clean the dining table. 

It was my first time at this monastery and had just

set things down in my room and was setting out

to explore the grounds, so beautifully landscaped.

The gentle monk eagerly explained the lay

of the land, where the sanctuary was and that beyond

the cemetery were the stations of the cross, a prayer walk,

a gazebo at the end, if I liked, to end my prayers.

He talked with his hands, especially his right hand,

or so it had seemed to me, or so it had had to seem

with its missing fingers. I kept my eyes on the monk's

even as he gestured and chirped about what was what

and where, the thumb, the index, a pair of nubs,

and then a pinky, waving and pointing. 

                                                                    We blessed each other

and I found many gardens well kept. At the cemetery,

past the pair of jacaranda trees that flanked the entrance,

the geraniums and century plants, the succulents and 

nameless flowers I recognized bloomed, surrounding

three, rectangular plots filling with stainless-steel crosses. 

They stood sentry for the hope and promise

that at the resurrection, after Christ's face, the brothers'

would be what they saw. They'd rise to find the garden

vibrant and one another in resplendent recognition that

needed no name or a new name. Or new names. Agapanthus

would be also trumpet pincushion and firework of proclamations

and Mary's violet annunciation. The hare that froze

when I sat down at a bench would bound away carefree.

The raptor that swooped at the hare, now perched on the 

sanctuary's cross would name the wind

according to its heave and whirl.

                                                            I would be back

at the dining room, finishing my tea, everyone gone

except the gentle monk on kitchen duty who'd already

put away the cart of dirty dishes. I would hand him

my mug, which he'd take, without hesitation, only I

am the hesitation and stubbed surprise. He'd take it

with his right hand, gripping the mug just fine, at a

tile, just fine.