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.


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