As infants we nursed
at the breast of the Holy Mother
Our bellies full and hot,
voices loosed:
Those songs that only children sing
Brother, do not lament
the passing of a moment
Those garments do not fit us now
as we
Psalmists in exile
not yet Kings
make complex the stirring wind
invisible but not absent
When the morning diffuses
and the fire fades
Rhythm but not Dancing
Pitch but not Song
The motions will compose a liturgy
to narrate our hunger
and our loss
To celebrate our being together
for we are born priceless pearls
lost in fields of swaying stalks
in and out as the force
of some unbidden and exquisite breath
paints her ephemeral eternal opus
in delicate sweeps between and
through the ancient broken stones.

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