Sunbeam, Moonbeam

monk

“A man who is a member of a religious order and lives in a monastery”

As in: a holy man

who hallows mountain streams

heals sick infants

possibly a saint.

No one said anything about gloves—

old leather gloves, once fine, now worn.

He said he would hang a glove

on a sunbeam for me.

No one said anything about his sly smile,

his jokes in Latin. This renegade brother,

this painter of dragons, this tall-stooped

gray liar who almost killed a man.

As in: the man who was a clasp across my life

between the dwarf maiden and the cathedral

between the wreath and the wife

between me and the vat.

This monk was never happy in a monastery.

He loved the Road even more than

Sister Poverty and Sister Charity. When I

walked the Road, he was at my side: invisible.

As in: a miracle-maker, standing there

in honey-gold midnight light,

laughing, he hung

a glove on a moonbeam for me

He somehow died without a hand, so I

gave silver to fashion him a new one.

But you, my merry monk,

you must find your own glove.

Megan Willome is a writer, editor, and author of The Joy of Poetry, and Rainbow Crow, a children’s poetry book forthcoming in April 2022. Her day is incomplete without poetry, tea, and a walk in the dark. Find her on Twitter @meganwillome and Instagram at @meganwillome, or online at meganwillome.com

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