Reading some old celtic monks today who just spent all their time copying the sacred texts, as a way of meeting God, and left their artistic notes on the margins of history! Good to sit with these guys on a snowy evening and hear the pages turning in their, much more brutal climes and times.

Reading the monks as they write:

When i read the old books
i see squirrels meticlously sketched on the margins
and hear deer, and musical notations, from their days-
creaturely praises, and…
i hear the pages being turned,
with cold and warm fingers, depending on the night,
of the old monks by oiled lamplight
waiting to find the exact next word
to say true again, as we talk together
forever already, in this dark but audibly
specific silence.