Tues., Mar. 17

Sailing back to Ireland,
what were you thinking?
Wondering about wild men,
dreaming of dolmens, menhirs, barrows?
An escape took you to a confrontation
with the one you cannot escape,
a divine call from an enemy,
an adversary, one from whom you escaped,
who called you back,
and you went.
What call did you feel,
to convert, to confirm, to save;
were there to be monasteries,
cathedrals, churches with round towers,
castles with mythic stones,
an obsession with shamrocks?
No.
You saw people,
those you hadn't met,
whose plight you knew from below,
whose fears and bonds you knew from within.
You saw, sailing back across the Irish Sea,
a land ripe for harvest, full and rich and . . .
. . . yes, and green. Full of life,
life that should endure,
and does,
with power and passion and fierce intent
to cross oceans and boundaries and make
of three or more a oneness that will stand,
like an oak in a hillside grove,
like a Celtic cross where roads meet,
and become one.