Maryknoll in June

(for A. M. Grace)

Electric lights can barely pierce the mist;
Precipitation masking wholesomeness.
The streets of town, the Virgin's holy ground,
her streets, her shops and church and park and homes

A deer bolts across my path, still masked
in gloom. I pause to think - "Escapee deer
from where on earth was your abode, and why
do you now disrupt my peace?" The rain falls on

and on and on and my disjointed steps
progress again -- the cemetery nigh.
The bitter wind, the pin-prick drops of doom
That fall on howling winter's night
in Maryknoll in June.