Teresa

You called yourself a pencil in the hand
of God. You were slick like an arrow, sharp,
poignant with truth. Like Mary to our Martha,
you chose the better part, washing the sick and half-
dead, even when your prayers seemed to crumble
like ash, and your God turned blank and silent.

Your life shone simple, untangled, your garment
specked with dust, your cup spilling gold.
When I think of your entrance––diadem
of stars around your head, seraphim who bear
your glorified cloak––I think all the heavenly voices
must have lifted in one harmonic weave: God,

saints, angels. Echoing a new song in this everlasting
moment, a new song written for you.