Olet | Carlyle R. Phelps

Olet: 
 
 
 
The Elder ambled amidst the wild trees. 
All the creatures craned their necks and beaks,
To see if he would deign to leave dry bread and seeds—
Olet, however, loved the Saint with or without the treats. 
 
Olet chirped the Trisagion, while leading his friends,
To the Elder who nourished them in both flesh and spirit—
The closest to heaven, through his means and ends, 
The animals would ever be—Olet accepted his place of respite. 
 
The Elder’s hands fed scales, hairs, and feathered white collars, 
The Elder’s heart built a temple of dogwood and cedar. 
Would that we be more his Olet, and less the curious mallards—
Not waiting for crumbs, but instead the feeder. 
 
Olet was a friend to the saint, and not a mere reader—
A beast closer to grace than this poet, my verse, or my meter.

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