“She was virgin even of herself.” Pere Francois O.C.D.
In a house of mirrors that coveted her image
she never walked with her own beauty
nor made a feast of her goodness,
inviting friends far and wide.
She never sat down with her own innocence
to dialogue together,
Nor called a stranger in to sit at
her hearth and be glorified.
She was a maiden promised to one lover
whom she was always seeking.
Though he hid in her heartbeat and settled himself
behind her breath,
he was distance, too. Journeys dwindled to places
beside her own, and miles melted beneath
her steps of wanting. She could by-pass all
meadows that trap us with their poisonous flowers
and their soliciting pools
and winding lanes that skirt only death.
She was out on the road alone, hastening onward,
gathering all as Gift, small and great
fragments of mystery and reality.
Everything was for Him, even her own being.
Since love marks neither measurement nor weight
she carried all, without touching or tasting.
Life which comes as virgin to us all,
most safely came to her.
Time, when she passed, remained inviolate.
Jessica Powers (1984)