I saw the place in a clearing. It had a thatched roof as brown and coarse as broom thistle.
A single, white bloom wavered invitingly alongside the threshold. Somewhere, a chicken clucked.
A bolt of linen, sheer as silk but maudlin the way tapestries are fitted to death, at odds with the peaceful continuity, adorned the lintel.
Inside, a man of average height tinctured in golden firelight read pensively sheaves of writing.
His hair was wispy and markedly sparse but in its silvery composition, plenitude.
He seemed coolly lithe in a white tunic that followed the lines of his neck before falling back eloquently into a cinch of knotted hemp.
He invited me to share in his thoughts; things of note, prayer but extravagant dilation where even hope becomes palpable.
Feasting on words whose nutrition is circumspect.
He ladled a steamy broth into a tankard and handed it to me.
Before raising it to my mouth he gave thanks and in his simple petition the rigor of a man whose conception of being was transposed beyond us and I was looking down, almost weightless in some otherworldly manifestation.
“I’m so sorry for the intrusion.” I said.
“I leave this work of God for another.” Vincent de Paul said.