Certainly we are not what we are,
for solitude can make us more, and kindness –
for what we are is tempered by a star,
see, its holiness, shining high.
Impassible, and yet, each night a wind.
Spirit is spirit. Do not marvel. For I
was lifted up – that we be intertwined.
A kinship – humility that is unshy.
On Friday morning I waited in the rain.
I prayed, Havah, the mother of children.
My lips became warm. Without complaint
a waning moon relinquishes its light,
for as a grain descends, a baptism,
a starry multitude, night’s quietism.