The Woman Who Was a Sinner

by Arielle Walters

She pauses on the threshold. Dimly lit
This room where men of law and knowledge sit,
Yet bright enough to keep her at the door—
Her foot and hem too soiled to brush that floor.

But still a gentle Visage holds her fast.
His tones, a long-lost echo from the past,
Infuse her nerves. She only seeks one word,
One look to know her speechless prayer is heard.

Enough. Her heart lies liquid in her clutch.
Intent to pour and, penitent, to touch,
With loosened lock and stricken soul she kneels.

Fit it was she wept, and kissed His heels.

Arielle pens poems, plies harp strings, and pampers African violets.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy