TO WORK IS TO PRAY. You cut the motor On the mower.

I’ve Never seen the grass Cut with so much Enthusiasm, Father Dean said, coming Up along side the abbey Church where you Had mown, you a Postulant monk, he A professed monk, Bearded (permission Granted due to a fragile Heart) robed in black. He smiled, his tired Gaze scanned where You had been. I like it Out in the fresh air, You said shyly. To work Is to pray, he said, and To pray is to work. You Have done both. You Smiled and looked over The mown stretch of Grass beside the abbey

Church. The bell tolled From the bell tower. Must go, he said, the Lord calls. He wandered Slowly down by the back Of the abbey and out of Sight. Over by the side The monk’s cemetery stood Silent and still, the stone Crosses marking the resting Place of monks who had died. Overhead, in the sky black and Long winged rook flew and cried.

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