Friday, November 18, 2005

Three Marys

I am the child of three Marys
with a life illumined by the voice of the divine,
whose shame bowed face hid from stones
and shed tears from love,
who lingered,hungering for meaning
beyond the limits of her soul.
I am the flesh into which painted icons were poured,
in whose blood stiff images melted and faded
as their colors dyed the threads for the weaver's loom.
I am the child of three Marys,
a girl with a task about which she must pray,
a sister ignoring a duty to learn what she must,
a once tainted woman freed to run
with a message given to share.
I am the infant
with memories fading and vision blurred
unable yet to see the pattern of the tapestry
as it flows and unfurls.
I am the child of three Marys,
a pale and distant reflection of each,
blessed, questing, forgiven, dismayed.
I feel their fingers press upon me,
calloused, delicate and bejeweled,
and catch the echo of long forgotten herbs.
This fabric of heritage
enfolds and emboldens me
to seek, to remember, to dream, to love,
not knowing how, but believing still
that wisdom will emerge.


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