Saint Monica, the mothers' patron saint A mother who is silent in her grace, whose prayers rise up through centuries’ complaint, whose hopes endure in troubled time and space.
And now a place southwest of Hollywood, a place that knows the ocean’s primal kiss, where palms reach high in solemn brotherhood, and grief is baptized gently into bliss.
She stops to watch the angels to the east— Los Angeles, where entertainment reigns— a city crowned in hunger and in feast, where fame burns fast and leaves forgotten stains.
But still she prays beneath the coastal skies, for every mother's silent, sacred cries.
This entry was posted on Saturday, April 19th, 2025 at 1:16 pm and is filed under Sonnets. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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