by Jeffrey Essmann
The caravan had slowly traipsed the vagrant hills, the sun still lacked the certainty of spring, and somewhere in and out the arid air bore breathlessly the faded mint of cedar. The girl kept to herself her thoughts of angel whisperings, of language strange, and jostled by the donkey, let herself be rocked and cradled by the world. But as they finally neared the town, she asked the man (“my man,” she thought) to take her down and let her walk the dusted stretch up to her cousin’s door. She didn’t know what she would tell her, know what she would say. She only knew that something deep inside her, something in her soul proclaimed.
Jeffrey Essmann is an essayist and poet living in New York. His poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and literary journals, among them America Magazine, Dappled Things, the St. Austin Review, U.S. Catholic, Grand Little Things and various venues of the Benedictine monastery with which he is an oblate. He is editor of the Catholic Poetry Room page on the Integrated Catholic Life website.