Over scrambled eggs and coffee, we
finally found that mythic quiet hour.
The kids were still asleep, except perhaps
for one or two; I don't remember much
besides the morning light, and wind's soft breath
through the door. We wanted to talk about math,
or at least some ancient esoteric text.
This hour might be easier to find
if it proved really useful. Instead we talked
about my trip last week, and what it might
be like to live a life with no regrets.
Just little stuff like that, but it felt right.
Perhaps our clocks were wrong; the Sabbath came
at quarter after six on Thursday morning.
A sonnet for St. Benedict
5 days ago