In just a few days, the Sisters of Charity, staff, and residents would celebrate the feast day of SAINT Solange of Berry. The administrators thought it would be good for the treatment center to have a festival in May, and St. Solange had been proposed. While obscure , her patronage extended to rape victims, shepherds, children, and rain, she seemed a perfect fit for a residential treatment center in the desert. And indeed, the women of the community had been enthusiastic about this idea. Riding the wave of their enthusiasm, Sister Joan had willingly agreed to help. But now that the 10th of May was fast approaching, she was a little worried about getting the final bits done. So here she was in the attic. Sister Joan knew it should not make her TESTY, but having to rummage through DUSTY bins was not her favorite activity. She also worried about random RUSTY nails and spiders. Pulling
back a MUSTY curtain, she gasped. There in front of her, a painting. Beautifully rendered, St. Solange walking, holding her severed head, approaching the church where she would finally die. “How is this possible?,” exclaimed Sister Joan. “It’s a miracle!”

Georg’ann

Daybreak

Early morning walk, hardly a SOUND
Friendship compelled me to ROUSE.
Paused at a field of gossamer dew filled webs
suspended on the HUSKY stems
of last year’s echinacea blooms.
These delicate glistening nests hold
emptiness so perfectly my eyes spill.
Passing the MUSTY shelter house
we hear snoring in concert with birdsong.
Behind soft grey clouds the pink orb rises .
Light increasing even as mist falls.

Heather