Red Flannel Monk

                    I don’t speak  

                       monastic words,

or silence. I don’t

wake til nine. I

rarely make my bed.

Yes, I light fresh candles

to illuminate my

wonder. And cigars.

I worship best

in chapels made

of dirt and pines.

I like to eat three

meals a day. And

apple pie. Fasting

is how I drive. Yes,

I pull carrots from

holy ground. Yes,

I fix garden fences.

Yes, I feed the deer

in season. Also

I hunt. In all this,

God speaks my name

but not in holy ways.

God speaks to me in

earthen languages of

wilderness and weather,

autumn’s first few lines,

the murmur of a stream.   

Brief whispers I need

come from clouds

who help me breathe.

And comprehend.

And sing.