An Idea of Order at St. Francis de Sales

Abstract

An Idea of Order at St. Francis de Sales Michael McGibney Whelan As we beheld her striding there alone,Knew that there never was a world for herExcept the one she sang and, singing, made. —Wallace Stevens It was as wasHas ever been wont to be—Selective and elusive enigmatic. That tiny moment thatOnly a very newLittle-boy-wonder-capture-senseCould catch. A butterfly of early timeLighting on a flower. And thenOpening the glory of its wingsTo lift away on air. In a gentle net his nascentMemory caughtIt and yet It flew simultaneousAwayInto the void of was As ifIt had two beings,One caught, oneBeyond, unlinked. It teased like the songStevens caughtOut of the nightInsisting it had no link to the worldOver whose sea it carried itself. What the boy caughtNever left him. That sudden blend ofScent and sight. That seaOf flowers on a Saturday afternoonAs he and his friends played inThe empty church of St. Francis de SalesOn East 96th Street. Roses, gardenias andLilies waiting all in white on a wedding. [End Page 272] Seventy years later,That lush luscious blur of whites in glory,And their sumptuous scent in his mindStill vivid freshAs then There for only that momentOn a Saturday afternoon That unlinked itself and liftedIts tiny flighting glory into The void of was. [End Page 273] Michael McGibney Whelan Washington, D.C. Copyright © 2019 Johns Hopkins University Press