by Claudia Lehman
Maidservant of the world, you brought to us,
the gnawing drought-burned masses, bread and wine
in peasant pottery. You sang one bird-like poem
in the innocence of beginning: sweet bright lines,
and fell forever silent. What had it been
to lay your hand against yourself, and find
the first small flutter of the world’s rebirth?
You mothered Him from whence the stars had sprung,
the least and highest knit together
by luminous knots that shall not be unstrung
while the world stands. That ordinary morning,
when the sun-speared winds were of a sudden stirred
by an ageless voice, the angels crowded breathless
as the fate of worlds trembled upon your word.
You laid your soul bare to the sword. When heaven
bursts winged upon us, offering a seed,
you taught us how an answer should be given,
defying anguish. Be it unto me.
Photo by Kenneth Godoy