Loyola stands atop the lake
Above the snow and ice
Illumined by the warming sun
A rampart clothed in white
As I step up to its porch
I yearn for summer days
Into this chair I settle down
Up to the sky I gaze
My bones are cold, my fingers numb
My soul still chilled and raw
Though winter ebbs, my spirit, Lord
Will need some time to thaw
Undaunted by the cold thick skin
Of three long months of frost
The rays of March pierce through the shield
Betraying winter’s loss
Tears falling from Loyola’s eave
Splashing near my feet
The cadence like a drummer’s lead
A quick and timely beat
I close my eyes and breathe it in
The warmth of God’s sweet grace
It permeates De Montreville
This hallowed, sacred space
My visit to Loyola’s porch
Too brief, but it must be
I yield this chair to you my friend
As it was left for me