To An Anchoress
Dear Juliana, Your crucifixion floods histories of poets. How you bled from your eyes, to drip on the faces of those below. Your blood drying to rose petals that covered up their eyes. They crumbled into the soil. They heard your words, when few did. Your meditations locked a history of minds in with your solitude. We fail to capture your prose. Some day I will travel the ocean to read your words like a scholar before a teacher with a novice mind and crippled pen. I hope to know then, why many saints and poets wept outside your walls, at the thought of your words. I am neither saint or poet, but I try to be at least, and I will try for you, dear Juliana, to save my tears of awe, to wash them over your stone feet.