The Rosary Poem by James Mullaney

My quietest hours, when longings cease,
in predawn peace steadfast and billowy
I ramble - pondering those mysteries,
that safe sylva, the Holy Rosary.
My intellect arbor, frowzy at first,
entwined in every viney distraction
became clearer, more sure: If thought is thirst,
daily prayer is holy liquefaction.
Mary and her Son branch around me now;
no blasted air expelled by Satan's sob
unlimbs them. Phoebe, pray, alight the bough,
and drowse in an aerie while still a squab.
Preen well for him for whom wee sparrows glide
you nestling dauntless on the mountainside.