I’ve talked to you before about the sunset,
but maybe you’ve not thought that I meant you.
Let’s clarify. You’re not a friend whose death
I grieve. You’re not a soul-friend, newly found.
You’re not someone I know and love who lives
too far away to share this moment. You’re not
someone who’ll ‘Yup!’ me when I call you
to the window, who, on glancing at the setting sun
will turn and say, ‘Um, nice,’ while thinking
that the cat needs feeding. You are anyone
who’d see this sunset sky and want to roar, lion-
like, to let your thoughts adore, to clear your mind
of everything but it, become, become that sky
almost, re-jig your senses so that eyes had help
from mouth and ears as opal clouds’ concerto
played, and all those purple drum beats beat,
and gold legato soared. So take and eat the colour,
new-born over there—horizon’s arms are splayed:
that’s where a prayer is really being prayed and sky’s
a voice, a sacred word. You are that person, you,
who read this. You can be a total stranger–only
you are not, for this, for this is now communion.
Johanna Caton, O.S.B., is a Benedictine nun from Minster Abbey in Kent, England. Born in Virginia, she lived in the United States until adulthood, when her monastic vocation took her to England. She writes poetry as a means of understanding the work of God in her life, whose purposes and presence can be elusive until viewed through the more accommodating lens of art and poetry. Her poetry has appeared or will appear in Green Hills Literary Lantern, Time of Singing Christian Poetry Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, The Christian Century, Amethyst Review and other venues. She is a 2020 Pushcart Prize nominee.