I visited the retreat center.

A guest, not bound by silence

but silent nonetheless, I saw roses

I offered as gifts years before;

sprawling and healthy, blooming blood-red,

benevolently dominating the walkway.

I strolled among pines,

where azaleas stood green, waiting for their time

to dazzle those heartened by Easter's promise,

who seek peace in early spring. Quiet seekers

in jeans and sweaters, they leave behind

children, chores, husbands, even churches.

Starving for bread offered by priests in denim

and vivid Guatemalan stoles, they sip wine

from glazed goblets, sweet blood of Christ--

hard to refuse when you are dying of thirst,

even if you are not one of the flock.

I sat in the brick and glass chapel, shimmering

in autumn light; the big wooden cross drove me out

into the wilderness, to the long wooden pier.

The turtles greeted me, as they always did,

and a memory as crystal as the lake itself

washed over me: A time I came here long ago,

a package from my mailbox tossed

into my duffel—four cloisonné turtles

ordered on a whim, lined up on the oak nightstand.

I'd strolled to the lake, where four turtles

lined up on a log, their faces somber, their secrets

locked inside lacquered shells I could not pry open.

And now, as the waters rushed beneath me,

            I knelt again to look between weathered beams.

Hundreds of white diamonds bobbed below,

rolling rapidly past my eyes

like stars bound for a final explosion.

I do not belong here, surrounded by prayers and prayer books,

guided meditations and daily rituals of healing,

crucifixes and personal journals, sayers of grace.

I have pine trees and azaleas in my own garden ,

and turtles who lay eggs in my yard,

then sun themselves on my pillared porch.

I do not belong here, where the dining room reeks

of the brutality of bacon, a smell that overtakes

the perfume of incense and burning candles.

I do not belong here, in this parking lot with flag-flying

SUV's, and church school stickers on clean windshields.

The women who know me smile and hug me.

They are here to learn, to pray, to rest and refresh;

and I am here only to visit. Nevertheless, I am once again

seduced by narrow paths and glass walls.

I do not belong here, yet I struggle to leave;

the silence is safer here, the diamonds brighter,

and I long, in the worst way, to drink the wine.