The Garden—late, Thursday

Night’s come.

        From  root-ruptured earth, tired and split

Emerges a trunk—rough, darkened and stiff

I recline. The numbing scent of olives sweet

Unknots my muscles, though still, I cannot dream.

Dark are the moon-shadows stretching through the trees

Dim are their leaves and I am fast asleep

Quiet stirs—and I come awake—the night is strange

So strange…these heavy eyes can only wane.

And slow the moon-beams grow as shadows creep

What is this fatigue, this oppressive sleep?

Awake my soul. Let us awake the dawn

Get up, I say, before the hour’s gone!

Yet slumber cradles me in mangled roots

It’s come—the thief—and I can’t seem to move.

+ Br. Joseph Michael Fino, CFR

Most Blessed Sacrament Friary

Newark, NJ

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