Convivium was a project of Cardus 2011‑2022, and is preserved here for archival purposes.


Chris Rowe's profound image serves as a visual backdrop to poet Liana Esau's reflections on prayer, death, listening, and love.

Chris Rowe
Liana Esau


This morning my eyes are deeplocked

on a whiteout sky. Prayer leaks like water

from my cupped hands—I hope

not to be afraid.

This morning God is obvious

the snow is falling soft

over a long row of poplars

in parallel punctuation,

To whom shall you go?

By noon I give up hope.

We are all dying to do the right thing.


We met at a long table and they

asked what I brought to the table.

I’ve seen a lot of death, I said.

And that’s something, I suppose.

I remember there was a low swung moon

in August, swear to God bigger

than my face and red as blood.

It was slowly losing ground to

the deep stubble of a cornfield.

I stopped the car, a blue heron was

bent, listening.


One morning God spoke to me

and said

and said

And that’s something, I suppose.

When I blow out the wick of a candle

smoke curls into a language.

Now the snow rises above the window seam

the poplars are bowed, a whisper

Whose mouth do you feed?

Who do you love?

And the world is quiet for a long time.

-Liana Esau

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