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psalm_onethirtyoneAve Maria
I am the tired one who dreams dreams.
You are the honest truth wearing blue and gold and smiling at a window, ready to open your arms
to hold the body of your son.
You are the smooth stone and at your feet robes pool like water; dust dances and lies down
at your feet.
I am the one who weeps ice in winter, who walks on the river, who prays in the forest;
I am the one who smiles gardens in summer, who grew up with bare feet, who lectured at Harvard.
You are the brave silence, who became childless and grew still
in beauty
You are the old household, sawdust and echoes, hammer and nails, serrated blade--and when you were alone
I came to you
Because I was bade, being motherless, and because your son left a place needed filling.
I am the beloved one, whose hands are still strong,
whose body still sore,
who, lonely, bereft, homeless, with only teachings and ruffly red hair, and a blessing
on my bread and wine,
came to you.
You, the curtained window,
You, the field honey,
You, the mother of God.
Blue and gold and still, you opened a door, and I entered in, and spoke stories
of your son
and told tellings
of your son
and became a carpenter
and built us both back together.
I, the farmer's cornstalks, the jeweller's watch, the wildest river, the softest sound, I, who am every child,
You, who are every mother, full of grace.
I am the tired one who dreams dreams.
You are the honest truth wearing blue and gold and smiling at a window, ready to open your arms
to hold the body of your son.
You are the smooth stone and at your feet robes pool like water; dust dances and lies down
at your feet.
I am the one who weeps ice in winter, who walks on the river, who prays in the forest;
I am the one who smiles gardens in summer, who grew up with bare feet, who lectured at Harvard.
You are the brave silence, who became childless and grew still
in beauty
You are the old household, sawdust and echoes, hammer and nails, serrated blade--and when you were alone
I came to you
Because I was bade, being motherless, and because your son left a place needed filling.
I am the beloved one, whose hands are still strong,
whose body still sore,
who, lonely, bereft, homeless, with only teachings and ruffly red hair, and a blessing
on my bread and wine,
came to you.
You, the curtained window,
You, the field honey,
You, the mother of God.
Blue and gold and still, you opened a door, and I entered in, and spoke stories
of your son
and told tellings
of your son
and became a carpenter
and built us both back together.
I, the farmer's cornstalks, the jeweller's watch, the wildest river, the softest sound, I, who am every child,
You, who are every mother, full of grace.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-04 08:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-06 06:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-04 11:35 pm (UTC)xx
(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-06 06:50 pm (UTC)(Thank you.)