A Sunday-poem by Mother Mary Francis:
Cold
This is the season of snows,
when the sky, all in pieces, is falling,
and bells from invisible towers
are soundlessly tolling.
Over the carpeted earth,
footsteps are coming and going,
leaving no tracks on a land
where winter is snowing.
Where are they hanging, the bells?
Whose are the feet that come walking?
And voices gone speechless with cold–
to whom are they talking?
Sound is an alien here,
and vision the child of a stranger.
Nothing is feeding the heart,
nothing but hunger.
Feed then my eyes and my ears.
God, feed my hunger with hunger,
my longing with snow-falling snow,
my heart with your winter.
Witnesses to Hope 