by Johanna Caton
As dawn begins to lift the blank of night and fragile clouds fan out at sunrise edge, I shuffle, yawning, from my sleeping life and watch the sun rise o’er my window ledge— because: it’s not a forgone thing, this juice— this day was never promised us, you know. God needn’t start again, He could refuse— extinguish everything by mighty blow. Because, remember Abraham with ten just men got God to keep the world afloat? Well, what if there aren’t ten? What then? What then? The happy ending starts to seem remote. I vow, therefore, to lay presumption down in case ten just men really can’t be found.
Johanna Caton, O.S.B., is a Benedictine nun of Minster Abbey in England. Originally from Virginia, she lived in the U.S. until adulthood, when her monastic vocation took her to Britain. Her poems have appeared in both online and print publications, including The Christian Century, The Windhover, Heart of Flesh, Amethyst Review, The Ekphrastic Review, St Katherine Review, Fathom Magazine and the Catholic Poetry Room webpage at integratedcatholiclife.org.