The National Catholic Review
Benedict Auer

“Before time had a name....” –William Stafford

At noon today
my psalm book
turned ruby
as I prayed the Divine Office,
the stained glass
window over
my shoulder
bloodying the page.
Other monks got the rest
of the prism,
some turquoise,
some emerald,
one even amethyst.
Only I seemed impressed
that God was coloring
our psalms,
reestablishing his covenant
without having produced
a flood.
I watched the windows
dance across the carpet
on the floor
and yearned to play hopscotch
across the pattern,
jumping from color to color,
a David before the ark,
but realized propriety—
although not one of our vows—
still must be maintained
so as not to disturb others,
although God might have
been very pleased
that someone had taken notice.

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