The Fools of God

In dreams I see them: Men and women, in Renaissance attire, Moving about in silence in some fabulous cathedral Full of silent Coptics and other sombre monks, Their faces, all but one of them, Obscured to uniformity by cloth Silent themselves, they move about with aimless grace Within the vast chamber that echoes my every footfall, Drifting in trance like leaves carried past on invisible waters, Performing miracles casually, as though to do so Were as natural as breathing. I watch them pass, bringing forth their miracles Like magicians cause cards to appear in their hands; Somehow I know they know themselves To be The Fools of God. The one whose face is unmasked is a woman, A stocky beauty of radiant expression, Whose miracle is astonishing: She wades through the polished marble floor As though it were bathwater, up to her shoulders, Her ecstasy rendering her incorporeal Yet supremely present, Smiling in glory, God's Chief and Happiest Fool. Who these mystics are I cannot say, Nor why they consider themselves Celestial Jesters; Though my guess is that the lesson here Is that perfect faith births perfect joy, As in the end, the Fool has the ear of the King.