A Shaker Sister’s Hymnal

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Come Life, Shaker Life 

The frost grows fierce upon the pane,
crystals cluster in tight geometry. Inside my
glove my fingers freeze. I gasp the cold until I
am dumb: until my eyes are arctic marbles
rolling blue and plumb in their sockets: until
my leaden tongue sinks in my mouth. 

The moon cracks above my head. It is the
aspen wood-shaven splinter by which I see. I
work beauty on the windows of sleeping
Sisters. With sticks I scrawl trees and leaves,
ferns and bees, stars and stalactites. 

I work all night, my mind a-glitter with
unearthly sight. Ice crystals splay into arches
and doorways, turrets and towers, bridges
and bowers. I have come at last to God’s
garden gate. 

An oil lamp inside seems the warm glow of
heaven. It beckons me on in my wild, flower
tracings. And above I see the winged angels
racing, on stars interlacing, their wings afire
as they fling themselves against the sky. 

* * * 

My spine freezes. I draw the salty crescents
large, with small, furry stars. They imbibe the
moon’s hard, white glow. 

Inside my boots my toes are numb, I am
unable to step once the mural is done. As I
stumble to bed the horizon brings the
revelation of day, a prophecy of bread: 

I will work with my bones. I will grind the wheat. I 
will build and atone; bread alone will I eat. On 
each stone I will write “Hallowed be Thy name.” I 
will not seek earthly fortune or gain. 

* * *

I Want to Gather Down 

The winter bleeds, and freezes, and all with it. 
Godspeed could not overtake it. In all God’s 
goodness, could he not give us endless 
springs, chased with rain? Towers of 
foxgloves for bees to roam? 

Still, there are little gifts. In the sunlit kitchen 
I knead and knead in the kinetic posture my 
knuckles make. I inhale the yeast and red 
cracked wheat; their scents mingle, becoming 
heavenly meat. 

I share this meat with all I see—farmers 
hauling loads of grain, beggars dressed in 
threadbare robes, children on a lumbering 
wain—hags, thieves, harlots, rogues. 

* * *

With the sun overhead, I pick weeds of pain. 
They grow profusely in the kitchen garden. 
They suffocate seeds with their greedy brown 
roots and sap the sunlight from other fruits. 

Yet, apples prosper in the orchard. I walk 
among this world of trees. Ladders stand 
stark in the morning mist, awaiting the 
eventual hum of bees. Dewdrops glisten on 
the apples’ skin; all reflect the glow within. 

I lift my firkin and ascend a ladder, the 
crooked ladder by the pond. The wooden 
rungs ring and echo; the earth resounds with
heaven’s beat. But as I climb, my firkin grows 
weighty. I can no longer lift my feet. 

My woolen dress hangs heavily. I am but a 
bony rack for clothes. My heart is hard and 
full of dread. My feet are rooted in the earth. 
My heart is rooted in the body of my birth. I 
feel the tug of heavenly traces but cannot 
move. 

* * * 

The Burning Day 

The Sabbath dawns with quiet fire. I inhale 
its pale, blue light. Angels press in around my 
bed, their gowns glowing amber bright. 

By degrees, the sun increases. I rise and walk 
through burnished halls. 

Piles of light cram into corners and jam my 
chamber door. I lift my limbs into a porcelain 
tub. The sun’s hot rub ribs my skin into 
brilliant, scaly furrows. 

* * * 

Outside, leaves are lit on tree-like pyres. 
Windowpanes ripple and fold under the 
bold, bright heat. The floorboards warp 
wood flares and tears itself into dusty curls. 

I gather these ashes in my palm; they flicker 
gray and golden red. 

I feel an incorporeal flame within. It burns 
outward, consuming eyes, hair, flesh, and 
skin. My mind melts. It has become a globe of 
purest glass, annealed with wisdom by godly 
blast.

* * *

Who Will Bow and Bend like the Willow 

As I walk to meeting across the grass, angels 
alight on windows and eaves. They are 
hymning and praising and comforting the 
bereaved. 

Behind me I feel the airy shuffle, hear the 
woolen ruffle, sense the white presence of 
vanished Brothers and Sisters. 

With an echoing crack I stumble on the 
granite meetinghouse stoop. 

* * * 

Under the cerulean ceiling we stand, like 
spires, until a single voice rings out the 
hollow lo-lodle-lodle-lodle-lo-lodle-lo. 

Now the spires start to move. We stomp our 
soles with ringing clomp as we slowly pace in 
circular pairs. 

The floor quakes as the room shakes. I labor 
and clap, march and sing. I hear the beat of 
angels’ wings. 

I traverse the verse of every song. Swept 
along by movement and voice, I whirl and 
bend in vision’s currents, strong. 

* * * 

Pleasant Walk 

The room revolves as the sky dissolves; my 
bodily sense has long been spent. A new 
landscape appears—a veil is rent—and I see a 
world beyond the ken of human eyes. 

A towering mulberry tree appears; its leaves 
are cross-wise intertwined. Beneath the tree a 
table stands, with exotic fruit, delicate wine. I
sit at the table and drink until it spills from 
my lips. 

Straightway I see a dwelling place, peerless in 
its form and grace. Within, angels give me 
garments new and present me with fine 
trinkets—colored balls and jeweled boxes— 
not a few. 

Here spirits dance in union sweet. Between 
them I see a staircase rise. It spirals and 
spirals toward unseen skies. A rushing wind 
flies from its heights and sweeps me, 
breathless, to its clime. 

The universal star shines above; its amber 
light suffuses sight. My feet are led from step 
to step. Below me dwellings constellate, 
forming a geometric homestead. 

A gold gate gleams ahead; Sisters and 
Eldresses await me there. With joyous shouts 
they urge me on, guiding me with eager care. 
I stretch and reach to touch their hands but 
cannot shake my earthly bands. 

Sudden mists cloud my eyes, and I fall 
through the hands of the dead. 

* * * 

I’m on My Way to Zion 

The autumn sky dies in purple silk, while the 
moon wanes scarlet, saffron, and pearl. A 
clock is ticking on the wall, like the ringing 
echo of soft footfalls. 

My painted floor is grooved and worn from 
nights of marching, treading thorns. Yet lines 
of copper nails still shine—small stars planted 
in the pinewood.