MONKS OF GETHSEMANI
Trappist, Kentucky

They silently enter the Abbey
slowly, one by one; bowing before
the cross, our Lord, an honor given
each time they gather to sing the Psalms.

A mix of sizes, more old than young.
Many have begun to look alike;
short gray hair, some with beards, others clean,
but sharp, clear eyes - spectacled or not.

Black cloth cinched by a wide black belt
over white robes floating to their feet.
But there I find the single crack in the shell of sameness,
The way in which they've chosen to differ.

Look down at the feet that carry them
forward on their pilgrimage of life.
Track shoes or sandals or tired brown broughams -
same as us, but they're already home.