for George W. Morgan


Time for a cardinal to perch in our locust
and sing its evening song. The neighbor’s
bronze-hued cat peeks around the corner,
wonders what I am, and what I would do
if it dares to place the next paw down.
A slanting spring sunlight has reached
every corner of my yard and the green
feeling of all that returns brings me back
to a dawn Mass in the chapel of the abbey,
the spring prayers curling like incense
as they rise toward heaven and a deity
the monks believe cannot help but listen,
and remembering their song in these
the first weeks of our affliction, I do too.



Saint Peter’s Abbey in Solesmes, France, is a Benedictine monastery that has for over a millennium been an important center for Gregorian chant.

Fred Marchant

The Future of the Sun
my lucid american dream